


the raw of our bodies

by kathey27



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And angst, Gen, M/M, Mentions of childhood abuse, Phil and an O.C. are the only character deaths, Second person POV, at least i hope not, canon AU, has some comic canon/comic facts/comic characters but not enough to confuse anyone, ignores MOST of Phase Two, ignores all of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., mentions of suicidal thoughts/suicidal tendencies, not a fix-it fic, or that well written, post Phase One, some violence but i don't think it was too graphic, this is mostly flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathey27/pseuds/kathey27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has no idea who he is supposed to be without Phil. / Or, The Tesseract hums beneath you, inside you, <em>is</em> You. You do as you’re told and continue to maim, your body, your hands a weapon. No one hears you screaming over the White Noise in your head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the raw of our bodies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Becks_Rylynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becks_Rylynn/gifts).



> First off, this is a birthday gift to the lovely and wonderful Becky. It's an early gift, since I missed last year and I hope you enjoy it! (I know you don't ship Clint/Coulson but maybe this will make you change your mind).
> 
> Second, this was written because there aren’t enough depressing Clint/Coulson stories already on this site. Here’s one more.
> 
> Title credit goes to Sarah Kay’s poem _Lightning_.
> 
> I would also like to give credit to the idea of She-Phil the Cat (you’ll see once you get into the story) to _This Excess Company_ by but_seriously. It’s a great story for any Vampire Diaries fan and it’s hilarious, so, go read it.
> 
> Non-linear and 99.99999% MCU ‘verse (there are little bits of comic canon in there, not enough to confuse anyone who doesn’t read the comics so don’t worry). Ignores all of Phase Two, plus Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Okay, well, it ignores it like… 99.99999% of Phase Two. There’s only .00001% of Phase Two here, you’ll know when you see it. If not, it’s in the end notes.
> 
> Not a fix-it fic, unfortunately.
> 
> Oh and most – 90% – of this is comprised of flashbacks so, yeah…

 “Everyone keeps telling me that time heals all wounds, but no one can tell me what I’m supposed to do right now. Right now I can’t sleep. It’s right now that I can’t eat. Right now I still hear his voice and sense his presence even though I know he’s not here. Right now all I seem to do is cry. I know all about time and wounds healing, but even if I had all the time in the world, I still don’t know what to do with all this hurt right now.”

\- Nina Guilbeau,  _Too Many Sisters_

 

“But when I do feel all the strength go out of me, and I fall to my knees beside the table and I think I cry, then, or at least I want to, and everything inside me screams for just one more kiss, one more word, one more glance, one more.”

\- Veronica Roth,  _Allegiant_

 

 

You are there.

 

The noise in your ears is almost enough to drown out the noise in your head. It’s White Noise and it’s sharp and crisp and it fills you to your very core. The world around you is hot and heavy and you can feel Loki’s touch above all else. He takes your arm in his hand, pulls you close and whispers his instructions. Fills your head with power and control and you are dying.

 

The Tesseract hums beneath you, inside you, _is_ You.

 

You do as you’re told and continue to maim, your body, your hands a weapon.

 

No one hears you screaming over the White Noise in your head.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You are here.

 

The shawarma tastes stale on your tongue and Nat’s warm leg by your feet does little to calm the buzz beneath your skin. Your head pounds and aches and if you tilt it just right you can still hear White Noise, can still feel Loki pressing inside.

 

You ignore this feeling, this pressure and continue to pick through your meat. No one’s talking and no one seems to want to be the one to break the silence. Fortunately you’ve never really been one for class.

 

“So Nat, where’s my dear husband? I don’t want to have to take home food because we both know it’ll end in She-Phil’s bowl by the end of the night.” The words slip out freely and easily and the pounding in your head increases. You ignore your heavy tongue and keep eating.

 

Nat shifts her weight, causing your attention to fall back on her and away from Rogers’ breathing, the man resting somewhere between awareness and unconsciousness.

 

She puts her hand on your leg and you straighten instinctively.

 

“Phil’s dead.”

 

Phil. Not Coulson.

 

The table is silent; this isn’t news to them.

 

You sigh, put down your sandwich and nod. You lean over and throw up.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Phil convinces you to keep the cat.

 

You and Phil are both staring down at the growling feline, him with fondness, you with contempt.

 

“She’s healthy.”

 

“She’s psychotic.”

 

He has the nerve to look offended at that. Before you can stop him or say anything to the contrary, Phil is bending down and scooping up said psychotic animal and bringing it into your apartment.

 

You stand at the doorway for a second before sighing and closing the door shut behind you.

 

“Don’t name it.”

 

“Too late.” He calls back from the kitchen. You follow his voice. “Her name’s Phil.”

 

You pause, brain unable to comprehend for a moment the situation. You resume walking. Phil is in the kitchen, with _it_ in his lap, feeding _it_ from a small bowl.

 

You take a second to marvel at your own stupidity. “You planned this.”

 

The small smirk on his lips, the light in his eyes, the tense less shoulders almost make up for what’s happening. Almost.

 

“First off, no. Just no. You can’t name a pet after yourself. Douchebag. Second, we are not keeping it. I can barely feed myself on the good days. And third – ”

 

“It’s a good name, my grandfather’s name, and no one said it’d be staying here. Besides, what’s one more stray?”

 

At this a smirk of your own begins to form. “You bring a Russian assassin home one time…”

 

Phil rolls his eyes, setting the cat down. Phil the Cat races off, probably to destroy the only bed sheets you own.

 

You glance back over at your boyfriend and mentally rename Phil the Cat She-Phil the Cat. You’re not winning this one.

 

Your face gives you away, as it always does with Phil, and his smile grows, sunshine bleeding forth.

 

“I love you.” You whisper then, the words slipping out for the first time in your seven years with him. They feel good and true. You try to stay put and not run off.

 

Phil’s face softens, eyes going warm. He leans forward, pulls you in and presses a single kiss to your temple.

 

From the distance you can hear the faint sound of shredding fabric.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Fury won’t let you see the body. Nat’s arm on your left and Roger’s wary gaze on your right keep you from punching your boss in the nose.

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong but am I or am I not his husband?”

 

“Barton – ”

 

“Because if I remember correctly you performed the ceremony yourself. Three times.” Stark makes a chortled noise in the background. Fury’s single eye twitches once, twice.

 

“Barton, you know exactly why you can’t see the body.”

 

 _He trusted you._ You don’t say. _He was the love of my life_. You don’t say.

 

“Please.” You do say.

 

Fury sighs and his mask slips for a second, tired and sadness etched into his face. “You’re all dismissed. Hill will be by the tower later.”

 

You don’t wait for him to finish before heading out.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. assigns you a therapist the minute it figures out that the scars on your back are more than five years old.

 

You had been very careful to hide your back in the communal shower room, to not be caught without your shirt on for more than a few minutes at a time.

 

It had – of course – been Agent Coulson who had discovered them. Who had come up behind you, quiet and unsure and had put his hands on your shoulder blades. The shiver that had run through your spine as he counted them is probably going to haunt your dreams for some time.

 

The therapist is named Dr. Taylor Martin and the second you walk into her office you want to run back out. The room is closed off, no windows and there’s too much mahogany for your tastes.

 

You sit down anyways.

 

“So Clint – ”

 

“Agent Barton.” You cut off, eyes glued on the awards and diplomas on the wall behind her.

 

“I’m sorry?” Her face is the perfect image of confusion and you hate how fake it is.

 

“My name. Barton.” You enunciate slowly and make sure to drag your eyes from the wall to her as slowly as possible.

 

The look of confusion is gone now and in its place is satisfaction. Okay, so _that’s_ how this is going to play out.

 

“Well Agent Barton, before we start is there anything you’d like me to know about you?” Her pen is being held loosely in her left hand, dead center on the notepad beneath her. Her hair is pinned back, silky black and you can tell she didn’t have to go through much effort to perfect the look. Her clothes are clean and polished and match her fair skin tone and make her seem years beyond her actual age. You can tell she’s nervous, unprepared and this makes you smirk lightly.

 

“I’m your first, right?” You ask instead of responding to her question. You cross your arms and lean back in your seat.

 

If she notes the defensive position you’re in she doesn’t say a word, merely sets her pen down and nods. “And I’m yours correct?”

 

You don’t respond.

 

This must be the answer she had been anticipating because instead of getting mad she simply smiles and places down her notepad as well on the coffee table before her.

 

“How’s this, I tell a bit about myself and then you offer something back?”

 

A shrug in response.

 

“My full name is Taylor Martin Song, I’m thirty years old and I live with five cats.” She waves her hand in your direction and you sit up straighter. “Clinton Francis Barton, twenty one years of age… a Virgo.” You spit out, eyes focused anywhere but her.

 

Her smile widens a bit before she continues the game. “I lived in South Korea for most of my childhood, I attended community college and the scars on my wrists have nothing to do with self destruction.”

 

Your eyes snap away from the wall they’d been zeroing in on. The smile is still clear to see on her face but her eyes… you think you could drown in all that sadness if you weren’t careful.

 

You clear your throat a few times. “I grew up in Iowa, I have one brother and my dad’s favorite pastime was beating me within an inch of my life and then trying to find new places to add scars.”

 

Her smile grows sad, understanding and you swallow around the self-pity. “Well, how about that?”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The apartment is empty without him.

 

There is dust gathering at the edges of the bookcases, on the tabletops, over his Captain America memorabilia and it’s slowly suffocating you.

 

You’ve yet to sleep in your own bed and you’ve just been buying new clothes every night, afraid of entering the closet and seeing something of his.

 

You stand in the middle of the too quiet living room and run your fingers over his favorite throw pillow. Good thing you’re not too attached to anything here. You figure you have a few weeks before S.H.I.E.L.D. makes you take Phil’s stuff to his family, pack up his life, his and your life.

 

You give the room one more glance over before pulling out your phone, dialing Jules’ number and preparing for the sobs.

 

(You dial Taylor’s number, later, on the ground of the rooftop with not enough to keep you from jumping off the ledge. She doesn’t answer and the phone cracks beneath your fingers).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Your memories pour out of your skull, filter through your ears, nose, mouth and take shape before Loki. He eyes the moments with barely contained tired joy, calculating and dithering.

 

Your life plays out before his eyes, your wants and desires and your mind, what is still, somehow, somewhere You, locks on to the moment he reaches the memories of Natasha. You feel something cold spread over you as he watches you pronounce her your soulmate. She proceeds to smile warmly.

 

“Well, what do we have here?” His grin is victorious.

 

All you can do is internally weep with relief that he hadn’t looked through your memories of Phil.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The very first time you meet Phil you’re bleeding from three bullet wounds and you can feel the world slipping away. You’re twenty-one, alone and with too much cockiness to be considered safe.

 

He comes out of the shadows, suit in place and for a second you mistake him for Death.

 

“Finally, it’s been twenty-one long years.” You mumble out. The blood stains your teeth.

 

He has a kind face with pale eyes and walks over slowly, eyes focused solely on you. He crouches down and pulls out a handkerchief, presses down on your wounds and keeps your insides together.

 

“Would you like a few more?”

 

You raise your eyebrows, trying to ignore your blurring vision and focus on him. It’s hard.

 

“Death, are you propositioning me?” You manage to get out, bones and flesh both tired.

 

The man with the kind face smiles and pushes the hair off of your forehead.

 

You are lost then and there.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Natasha finds you, three weeks into your seclusion and instead of forcing you to shower and back into the world, she takes one look at your slumped figure, and sits down besides you.

 

Her body is warm against your cold one and you lean towards her automatically, instinctively.

 

“Nat…”

 

She works her arm around your shoulders and pulls you in closer. “What do you need?”

 

You hate that you have to say it but you do. “Taylor.”

 

She only nods however and of course she has already guessed as much. Nat prides herself on knowing your every thought. “I went by her place. No one’s home.”

 

You shiver against her at this. “Is she – ?”

 

“Please,” she scoffs. “You know Martin. She’s fine. She’ll contact when she can.”

 

You nod and yeah, you know how Taylor is. You’re not the only one with a habit of disappearing without a trace for days on end.

 

“What else do you need?”

 

“Phil.” The name is heavy on your tongue, leaves pressure on your chest and your eyes are stinging. You ball your hands into fists and cling onto her shirt.

 

“Oh vozlyublennoy, I’m so sorry.” Her hold tightens and you want to cry. You want to sob and stomp and yell and destroy the apartment. You want to howl at the skies and rip out your hair and this isn’t _fair_.

 

“Did he die alone?” This is all you can think to ask because you _have_ to know. You need to know if Phil died without somebody by his side, alone and cold.

 

“No Fury was with him. He stayed until he stopped breathing.”

 

The pressure increases and you can’t breathe around it. Phil died with his best friend by his side and you are so grateful for this you can’t put words to it. So instead you bury your face into her chest and fall asleep.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Your three-year anniversary goes about as well as can be expected.

 

You’re both in Ukraine, cold and wet and the Black Widow is within your sight.

 

It’s been a long three months of surveillance and espionage and a far too squeaky motel bed. It’s been bad coffee and cold dinners and hours spent on rooftops hoping for a glance.

 

And of course on the day that you actually want to wrap up early and head back for some very loud sex is the day you finally spot her.

 

“What’s the holdup Barton?” Phil asks, voice professional and calm over the comm link.

 

You keep your eyes on the Blonde, sniper rifle tight against your face. You know she knows your location, that you have a shot set on her. And you also know she doesn’t care.

 

“Hawkeye, report.”

 

You frown, lick your upper lip and lean away from the rifle. None of this feels right, not when her back is to you. You’ve made hundreds of shots but never one where the enemy wasn’t facing you; you’re anything but a coward.

 

“Give me a second sir. I need to see her face.”

 

Silence from Phil’s end and you know he gets it. He’s the one that has to sit with you when the guilt gets to be too much.

 

The Black Widow turns just then and… she looks at you, eyes locking with yours and raises her chin.

 

Your breath escapes you, throat tightening.

 

Her eyes… _damn it_.

 

You put down the weapon and dive off of the tower before you can overthink it, landing on your feet soundlessly. The Black Widow has her eyes trained on you, body tense and defensive.

 

“Clint – ” You turn off your comm link and make your way over to the assassin, slowly. You’re so getting fired for this but you _have_ to try.

 

You slip into Russian easily, and the words feel clumsy on your tongue. “Would you like to rest?”

 

Her eyes track your every move, cold, calculating. Tired. She could kill you in a second, with her pinky, but she doesn’t.

 

She instead falls to her knees, head held high and eyes open.

 

You signal Phil and finish the walk over.

 

(It doesn’t end there).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

When you come to it’s hours later and Natasha is in your living room, taping down all the windows and sharp edges.

 

“Tasha – ”

 

She wordlessly points to where she’s also confiscated pretty much all the knives and non-plastic forks from the kitchen, most of your weapons and a few choice guns. She turns to you when she’s done with the last window and there’s no anger in her eyes but there’s pity and you have to look away.

 

“I saw the prints, on the ledge.”

 

You force yourself to step into the room. “No Nat, I wasn’t – ”

 

“Don’t lie to me!” Her voice is sharp and it echoes and the last time she had yelled in your presence it’d ended in the death of three people.

 

You don’t mean to but you lean back, a childhood filled with doing so having instilled it inside of you. She notices, of course, and takes a breath, turns away from you. Her knuckles are white as she clutches the curtains. “You can’t – ”

 

You snort and reach for one of the knives. It feels light in your hand, flimsy and you know two quick vertical lines would do it. It’d be over before Natasha could so much as turn to you. You put it back down. “Why not? I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not but Phil,” you try to swallow but that only makes it worse. “He’s not around anymore so we both know it’s just a matter of time before I bite the dust. Whether by my hand or something else. I’ve never been all that good with alone.” And this is true; it’s why you stayed with Barney and Trick Shot for as long as you did.

 

“Don’t insult me and Martin by acting like we’re not reason enough for you to stay. What the hell would Taylor say if she –”

 

“Taylor’s not here now is she?” And saying this out loud makes you want to curl into a ball and die. When you go, you want Taylor by your side, holding you through it.

 

Natasha turns now and her eyes aren’t pitying but they’re wet and wide and she looks too young. “Don’t pull this shit on me Clint. You know that I…I love you. You‘re all I have, you are _everything_.”

 

A cruel smile catches your lips and the words are out before you can stop them. “Now we both know this isn’t true.”

 

Her lips thin and she’s chuckling now, approaching you. She ignores your comment and continues on. “You pulled me back from myself in ways that I…I don’t think I ever thanked you for bringing me in that day, for saving me.”

 

You want to look away but instead you raise an unimpressed brow. “If I remember correctly you threw a knife at my face.”

 

“Yeah well,” She’s before you now and her hands are soft on your cheeks. “I’m grateful to you. For what you did, for not taking that shot. I was so lost, for so long and you…you gave me a home and you let me love you. You let me take you in and you _don’t_ get to leave me now. You’re it Barton. And that means I’m going to be here to pull you away from that ledge every time.”

 

You don’t reply and there’s another lump in your throat now, for a different reason and you remember why you and her never talk about feelings. Because when you do it ends like this.

 

“And Coulson,” she pauses, and the strain in her voice is noticeable but she doesn’t let you move away. Clutches your face tighter in her hands. “I loved him. Not how I love you but I did. So you don’t get to leave me too.”

 

You hands fall down on hers, grip them against your skin. “I don’t know how to do this without him.” This feels like a dirty confession and you whisper it, lower lip trembling. You’ve never made it much of a secret that Phil was your only reason for being but it feels different saying it out loud, feels like a betrayal.

 

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not going anywhere then, huh?”

 

You fall against her at this and you’re so goddamn tired. You tell her as much as she sighs, pulling you towards the door. “Let’s go find Martin.”

 

(Neither of you mention this again).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You’re pretty sure a person isn’t supposed to be losing as much blood as you currently are.

 

Your back is pressed into Natasha’s chest and her hands are inside of you, covered in you, trying to hold you together until extraction can arrive.

 

“Come on Clint, talk to me. Stay with me.” Her voice sounds far away, as if coming from across a body of water and you try and swallow around the blood in your mouth. You end up just swallowing the blood and lean further into her.

 

“Not really going anywhere.” You manage out through chattering teeth and your vision starts to slip away for a second before returning.

 

“Don’t be a smartass while my hands are wrapped around your large intestine. It’s not cute at all.” You ignore how shaken her voice is and the trembling beneath you.

 

The box of crates hiding you and her isn’t going to do much good if any of Boerhn’s men decide to come make sure they finished you off and you know that no matter what she says, there’s no extraction coming.

 

“Get to the extraction point.” You say and try to focus on those breathing techniques Taylor showed you last month. They’d helped for shit with the really bad panic attacks and they’re pretty shitty right now but they make you feel better, at least enough to be able to hear Nat’s sharp laughter.

 

“Cute, really cute.”

 

You swallow more blood and bring your hands up to your eyes. You can’t even feel them shaking uncontrollably. “You need to get out and head to the safe house then. You can call Santiago from there and finish the mission with him.”

 

There’s no response from her end and before you can attempt to chase her off she’s laying you down on the ground and stripping off her shirt and boots. You watch helplessly as she hovers above you, stripping down and making some kind of make shift bandage. You hiss against the tightness once she wraps it around you and then can’t help your shout of pain when she yanks on it sharply.

 

“Don’t be such a freakin’ baby Barton. Besides you’re _not_ allowed to die on me. Coulson will kill me.” She snaps, hands pressing down on your lower stomach area yet again.

 

You lean your head to the side and spit out enough blood to make yourself dizzy and attempt to count the lights hanging above Nat’s head. You can’t and this makes you lean your head back down. “Tell that crazy asshole I love him, ‘kay? And I never really did forgive him for She-Phil the Cat, no matter what Taylor says at my funeral. That thing is psychotic.” You can no longer feel your legs and the cold has slipped away, warmth coming to replace it slowly, limb by limb.

 

“Shut the hell up, you are _not_ dying. Okay.” The tears in her voice have you looking up and oh crap you made Nat cry. Her eyes are wet and wide and her cheeks are sleek with moisture. You reach upwards and try to wipe them away but only succeed in smearing blood all over her face. She doesn’t flinch away, just leans into your palm and that’s when tears of your own start to roll down the side of your face.

 

Damn it you haven’t had enough time. You haven’t had enough years with her, with Phil, with Taylor, with everyone and you no longer have a death wish. You’re no longer twenty-one with too much baggage and not enough people to help you carry it. You want _more_.

 

You tell her this, the words slipping out slowly and around hiccups of blood and the edges of your vision start to blur slowly.

 

“You know I love you right Tasha? Because I do and I know love is for children but you’re…you have been one of the best parts of my life and I love you so much. I can’t find the words to try and explain how much.”

 

She doesn’t reply, just leans down and presses bloody lips to yours in one last attempt to make you _stay_.

 

And that’s when the comm link in your ear comes to life, when the love of your life’s voice filters through, strained and fearful and filled with tears.

 

“Not today Barton. Extraction’s five minutes out and you better be there when I arrive or so help me you’re finding someone else to marry your ass.”

 

As far as proposals go, it’s not bad. Still. “Death, are you propositioning me?”

 

A chuckle that seems to have been ripped out of him reaches you and Nat above you is shaking with laughter and pressing another kiss to your person, this time to your forehead.

 

“As long as you’ll be mine.”

 

You sigh and let your eyes close. “Haven’t I always been sir?”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

No one at HQ meets your gaze anymore. They all duck down and away and flinch at the sound of your voice, your name.

 

Hill – sometimes Maria but usually Hill – softens her gaze and cups your cheeks once, when you first return from your WSC meeting. Her eyes are wet and tired and you know Phil belonged to her long before he was ever yours.

 

No words are said and none are needed. The loss is raw for both you and her.

 

Jasper – Sitwell in open spaces – thins his lips and lets you have the last cup of coffee on the cafeteria line. Him and Phil had moved up the ranks together, had acted as groomsmen to each other.

 

His silence cuts deep.

 

Fury – Sir when you feel up to it, Nick when you’re feeling sassy, Marcus when you had needed someone to talk Phil away from the edge – brings you into his office. You sit in silence with him and watch the time slip away.

 

“We wanted to get a new place, somewhere further from HQ. Maybe revisit Connecticut. Real estate’s good there this time of year.” _And it’s also six hours away._

 

Silence.

 

You tighten your arms around your waist and try to ignore how calculating his face is at the moment.

 

“Phil’s office – it needs to be packed up and cleared out by the end of this week. Either you do it or Evans from HR can.” The words are said carefully, weight behind each syllable.

 

You kick out your feet and try not to think of all those nights you spent on the lumpy sofa in Phil’s office or that slightly broken coffee pot that Phil refused to replace or the vent opening right above his desk that had worked greatly in your favor during a particularly hard fight. Or the red leather chair that’s seen one two many quickies and not nearly enough love.

 

You swallow around the lump in your throat. It never does feel like enough.

 

“I’ll do it. Anything else?”

 

A shuffle of papers. “In his will – ”

 

“He wants to be cremated, ashes go to Jules, dog tags to me. S.H.I.E.L.D. confiscates classified items and Jules and me split the rest. I know what it says.”

 

Fury nods along, smirk firmly in place. “Then I’d like to assume you also know about the life insurance policy.”

 

One blink. Two blinks. And you’re away, lying in bed, sore and tired and deliciously stretched out, Phil above you, kissing you everywhere, hands everywhere. Eyes soft and inviting and you fucking love married sex. You tell him this and he repeats it back, slowly, making sure each letter hits home. Both you and him know the weight of the word and use it for the moments where no other ones will do.

 

You come back to the present, Fury’s gaze hard and penetrating. “I figured he had it. Give it to Jules.”

 

“Barton – ”

 

“Don’t. Don’t insult me by acting like the state gives a fuck that we were together for thirteen years. Don’t tell me the government gives a fuck about how much I – ” A shaky hand runs itself down your face.

 

“Clint.” And just like that he’s Marcus. Who visited Phil after he got back from Tunisia, barely any bones in his body working, who was there when the nightmares were too much for you to handle alone and who got ordained because he refused to let anyone else be the one to do it.

 

The transition from Fury to Marcus hurts your throat and you swallow a few times.

 

“We have a cat. He made me get a cat. I mean, he didn’t make me, it belonged to the building, just some random stray that always came by for scraps.”

 

A sigh. “She-Phil the Cat.”

 

You snort, of course Marcus knows. “That fucking douchebag.” Pause. “I’ve always loved dogs. Always figured if anything it’d be a dog, maybe a lab… Phil’s allergic.”

 

Marcus sits back in his seat and tilts his head to the side. “It’s okay to be angry.”

 

A hard chuckle escapes you and for a second you can’t breathe, can’t think. Phil was your air for so long it’s hard now to remember how to do it on your own. “Of course it is my fucking husband is dead. But I’m not angry anymore.” _I’m just tired._

 

A nod and Fury steps back in, Marcus fading back into a well-adjusted mask.

 

You can tell he’s about to dismiss you so you ask before he can get the chance. “Where’s Taylor? I couldn’t get access to her place yesterday. I’ve always had access.”

 

Silence. A pause. “Go to your new therapist Barton, he better be getting paid for something.”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

A year after you bring in the Black Widow is when you are allowed to see her again. Up until that point it had been suspension, a downgrade two levels below what you should have and constant surveillance. Phil’s words curt and tired.

 

They take you to a corner of C block and leave you alone with her, surveillance camera in plain sight. The second the door is closed you nod to the vent above both your heads, knowing full well Phil knew it was there. “Hungry?”

 

The now redhead smirks, lightly and follows you.

 

You and her both make it to the kitchen in record time and are putting a dent into Chef Ragusi’s jello supply in ten minutes time, backs to the walls opposite each other and knees drawn up.

 

“They been treating you good?”

 

Eyebrows raise and she shrugs, viciously sucking on her cherry covered spoon. “They let me dye my hair.” You hear what she doesn’t say. _Therapy, evaluations and a locked room._

 

It’s progress still so you smile and let out a low laugh. “Looks good on you. Natural color? Not that the blonde looked bad but… you know, this suits you.”

 

Instead of an answer she gives you a calculating look and grabs another cup. “You took me alive.” Her accent slips, for a second but enough for you to know it’s there. You pretend it wasn’t done purposely.

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

The air whips by your ear and there’s a blade embedded in the concrete besides your face. You lick the jello off your second lid slowly and don’t bother asking where she got it. It’d be an insult to both you and her.

 

“I did not ask to be saved.”

 

You let the jello cup dangle from your fingertips, balanced between your legs. “I know the look in your eyes. Same look I used to get before a job. Wanna know a secret? It fucking fades, until there’s nothing left but you, your blood and your ledger covered in red.”

 

A sadistic smirk crosses her lips and for a moment you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen anybody more beautiful. “And you what, wanted to be the one to help me wipe it clean?”

 

You continue eating and don’t tell her about the three weeks they had you on suicide watch when you first got in, or the way it was Phil’s voice time and time again that brought you back on missions. Or how sometimes the nights are still too much and you need a gun by your pillow to let your sleep.

 

“Nah, got too much of my own for that. But figured I could offer you something else.”

 

“And what’s that? Another company looking to make a profit?”

 

“A home, something to call your own.”

 

Her legs cross and she shakes her head. “You talk like a child.”

 

“And I love like one too.” You don’t think about how it’s been months since Phil’s talked to you properly.

 

A silence falls over the kitchen and you can faintly hear Marina opening up the front for breakfast through the door. It’s another few minutes before you reach around for the ice cream on the shelve besides you and ask, “Why’d you let me take you?”

 

A flicker of… something crosses her face. “I had nothing else to do that afternoon.”

 

You don’t mention the car chase or the lagoon water that had soaked you to your bones.

 

“Well Miss Romanova, how would you like something to do?”

 

She nudges her last jello cup to you with her feet and shrugs. “How’s the pay?”

 

“Shitty, but it comes with perks.”

 

“Like?”

 

“Free jello.”

 

She smiles first, lips parting, and then an airy, small sound leaves her mouth. It takes you a second to recognize it as laughter. You join her and pretend to have no idea what Marina’s talking about when she comes to find you and Romanova playing Slap together.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You eventually end up giving in and going to therapy again anyway. Nat’s threatened to steal She-Phil the Cat a total of seven times now and if you don’t, you’ll probably get home one of these days to find her trying to sneak it out the window or something.

 

Dr. Lorne’s office is crafted out of windows, open and exposed and it makes your skin crawl. You contemplate making a dive for said windows but then think against it; with your luck you’ll probably land on someone on their way out.

 

The chair beneath your fingers and thighs is soft, cushiony and reminds you too much of Phil’s stupid beat up leather armchair that he refused to give up but insisted on keeping at the apartment. You dig your nails in.

 

“Well, Barton, why don’t we start with why you’re here?”

 

You pause to lick at your lips for a moment before nodding towards the northern wall. “You’ve got a lot of windows doc, easy access points.”

 

A shrug. “I make it a habit of mine not to let people in who aren’t supposed to be.”

 

You raise your chin towards the glass desk. “Lot of glass too. There a story there?”

 

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

 

You don’t comment on the fact that Phil used to have a glass desk until one day he fucked you so hard into it the whole thing slipped and shattered beneath both you and him.

 

Instead you lean down further into the chair and cross your arms. “How many more hours we got until you can go tell Fury I’m no longer a security risk?”

 

“134.”

 

You start a mental countdown and ignore the sound of the pen meeting the notepad on Dr. Lorne’s lap. You take the moment to focus in on him, to take in his white button up and dark slacks. They seem fairly new and well taken care of, effort obviously a factor. His shoes are basic, non descriptive and black, the kind Phil wore to work. He has a soft face and it’s a face that can be trusted; probably why he was chosen for you. The air around him is relaxed and tension free and he can’t be more than twenty-eight. A child desperately trying to play dress up.

 

“You done studying me yet?” The smile on his face is kind and it makes you want to throw up.

 

“Why can’t I see Taylor?”

 

The smile doesn’t slip for a second. “Dr. Martin is preoccupied at the moment so you’ll have to do with me.”

 

You’re not impressed by this and make sure to let that be clear on your face.

 

The smile grows. “How about this, next session we actually get to talking and I tell you about the windows?”

 

You leave without acknowledging his offer.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“We have a cat now. An actual cat. He named it after himself. Douchebag.” You are not pouting. You are _not._

Taylor pauses in her note taking, perfect right eyebrow raised perfectly in an arch. “You seem… distressed by this, more so than you usually would.”

 

You offer a shrug at her nonverbal question and grab a lollipop from the bowl. They hadn’t been there last week and you suddenly need something to do with your hands. “He totally planned it to. He went right to the door when the scratching started. He had a freakin’ bowl ready and everything. Asshole.” You put the damn sweet in your mouth and wonder if it’s possible to aggressively suck on candy. You decide it is.

 

“I’m about to put on my therapist goggles, prepare yourself.”

 

You flip her off quickly, before the air switches to professional and you have to sit up straighter.

 

“Do you want me to start with the commitment issues or the abandonment ones?”

 

You grunt and suck harder.

 

“Clint, why are you so opposed to the idea of permanence between you and Phil? You guys have been together for seven years at this point.”

 

“It’s not that, it’s just… he didn’t even talk to me about it, just plucked the damn thing off of the ground and named it. You don’t spring a pet on a person like that okay!” You ignore the slight hysteria in your own voice and bite down hard on the lollipop.

 

“Sounds to me like he wanted to have something for the both of you. Something for you guys to call your own and take care of.”

 

“He didn’t even ask though, he knows how I feel about felines!” You put emphasize behind your words with a sharp poke of the lollipop in her general direction. She looks too amused to fully have on her professional goggles. You forgive her anyways.

 

“Have you tried meeting him halfway? Maybe this is something he needs.”

 

You focus on the scratch of pen meeting paper and try not to think about how fierce Phil is when an op involves kids, or how soft his face is when you and him walk by a park, or even how he dotes on his nieces.

 

“Whatever… I guess we’ll keep it. He’s already bought the damn thing a litter box.”

 

You ignore the smile she sends your way and the extra words she scribbles down on the margin of the notepad.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The funeral itself is short and attended by Army Rangers, S.H.I.E.L.D. and far too many people whose faces you don’t recall.

 

You stand at the front with Jules and accept the flag presented to you and take _thank you_ s when you need to and afterwards you’re left kneeling in front of a vase full of ashes.

 

Natasha’s hand on your shoulder feels cold and weightless and the pressure on your chest is enough to suffocate any man.

 

You wipe your dry face, stand and let her take you home.

 

\--

 

 _I’m uh, not exactly sure where to start. You all know me, hey, I’m Clint, Phil’s husband. Today is – well, today is the day I say goodbye to the love of my life. I had thirteen long, amazing years with the man and I can’t even begin to describe how much they meant to me. My life has been filled with so much love and warmth thanks to Phil. He gave me somewhere to call home and a family of my own and I – I love him so much. You guys know me, I’m not really one for words, so I might have told him I love him all of twenty, thirty times in all our years together. But every time he so much as blinked, so much as looked at me I was lost. He was –_ is _my everything and I… I’m sorry…_

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The tension at the dinner table is thick and enough to make you want to run. You want to pack up, grab as many weapons as possible and make a break for it because you’re not sure you’ve ever seen Phil this angry.

 

The meat feels lumpy in your mouth but you swallow anyways and continue to avoid his gaze. Your day off had passed with silence in the apartment and an angry boyfriend when he finally decided to show his face. The anger isn’t what’s bothering you, not really. Phil’s been angry for months now, evident in his words, his stance, how stiff he is with his affection now.

 

What bothers you is the fact that you are so broken and messed up in the head that any sign of anger from a loved one automatically makes you fear rejection, makes you fear solitude and waking up to an empty apartment with no note or explanation. Taylor would call this your abandonment issues flaring up again.

 

You and Phil were finally in a good place when Ukraine happened, had gotten into a pattern of warm affection and soft teasing and three years is both a long time and not long enough. You want more years with him.

 

And that’s why you’re the first to break the silence, to speak up.

 

“They let me see her yesterday, Widow.” You have no idea why these are the words your brain choses to release.

 

A small nod.

 

All right, attempt number two: “She dyed her hair. Or let it grow out, whatever, it seemed too dark to be natural.”

 

A sip of beer. This is the most he’s let you speak in nearly four months. Progress.

 

Attempt number three: “Sorry we broke out, figured you let us into that room on – ”

 

Before you can finish the thought Phil’s knife is falling from his hand, landing sharply on his plate. You ignore the shards of cheap china that fly.

 

“She could have killed you.”

 

You freeze, eyes moving up and focusing on his cloudy ones. “Sorry?”

 

Phil pauses for a moment, as if surprised he spoke in the first place. The look of confusion is so out of place and weird on your lover you want to run your hands down his face and wipe it away.

 

“In Ukraine. You – you went down there without any backup, without letting us know your play and she could have killed you. We both know she could have killed you before either me or Santiago made so much as a move.”

 

 _Oh Phil…_ “Phil – ”

 

He doesn’t let you interrupt, holding a hand up to cut you off. His expression evens out the next minute and there’s the man you know. The one always in control, even in moments like this.

 

“Have I ever made you feel like your opinion isn’t valid? Or that I wouldn’t listen if you had something important to say?”

 

The food feels lumpy for a whole different reason now and you push your plate away. “No.”

 

“Then explain to me why you couldn’t have signaled me – ”

 

“I did!”

 

“After!” The bite in his tone has you jumping and you’ve never heard him get so loud before. You reach for the knife by your plate. “You signaled me _after_ and let’s not even mention your comm link going off!”

 

Silence falls and you tuck the knife up your sleeves, just a precaution, just to be safe. You know you’ll never use it but the feeling of cool silver against your forearm helps with the tightening in your stomach some.

 

A new silence falls over the kitchen and your throat feels like someone tried to force sawdust down it.

 

Phil’s face slips and you can tell he can feel sawdust in his throat as well. He parts his lips and you prepare for the break up, physically steel yourself for the words to come.

 

“I love you. You, you _have_ to know that I love you.”

 

The bottom drops out. Oh. _Oh._ And it makes sense now; the painful way Phil’s been looking at you for months and the way he tightens his hold on you in bed because his subconscious doesn’t care how angry he is with you and how sometimes he just looks at you like you’re every answer he needs.

 

“No one’s ever loved me before.” You say instead of reciprocating. Your heart clenches tightly at the mere thought of giving back what he just selflessly gave you and you hate yourself for it. You know you can’t ever be what he needs, you’re far too broken, and that makes you hate yourself more than you thought possible.

 

His face falls and instead of angry he’s tired and you _hate_ that you make him look years beyond his age. You don’t have time to apologize before he’s reaching over the table, grabbing your shirt and pressing his lips to yours, slowly and gently.

 

You let the knife drop out and focus on keeping him pressed against you.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The unofficial funeral is held the next day on the rooftop of your building and it goes about as well as things usually do for you.

 

There’s beer and pizza and a bonfire and She-Phil the Cat is passed around and this is when your stupid heart decides to let out some of the pressure building around it and allow sobs to come forth.

 

You press your fist into your mouth, lean against Jules and clutch Nat’s hand as tightly as you can.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Darcy Lewis is going to be the death of you, you’re convinced.

 

Not only does she insist on blasting her music for all ears at three in the morning but she also insists on dragging you with her every time she needs to go somewhere because “out of all the dudes they have watching us, you’re the least creepy. it’s a compliment.”

 

You’re not even completely sure why you’re still stationed in New Mexico. Thor is long gone, has been for days now and this can’t be good for your blood pressure.

 

Take right now for instance, right now said girl is nibbling on the end of her pen and waxing lyrical poetry about your husband’s ass. Not that you don’t agree with her, but still, some discretion would be nice.

 

“And I mean sure he’s too old for me but his ass totally makes up for that. Jesus I bet I could bounce a quarter off of it.”

 

You don’t voice the fact that you actually _can_ bounce a quarter off of it – you’d been bored, he’d been asleep and in the end you’d gotten a blowjob out of it – and instead focus on keeping your eyes and ears open. There’s really no need for surveillance but Fury had insisted on it, most likely to stay on Thor’s good side through Dr. Foster.

 

“Oh! And his arms! He fills out his suit quite nicely if I do say so myself.”

 

You glare down from your position on the roof and think about dropping a brick on her foot. You push that thought away. Apparently your murderous thoughts take longer than you thought because when you stop visualizing how to dispose of Lewis’ body she’s no longer within sight on the ground.

 

You curse, look further over the ledge and damn it, Dr. Foster is going to murder you if something happens to her assistant.

 

“So, how long you been tapping that ass for?”

 

Darcy’s loose words hit your ears before your brain has time to process that she’s speaking, let alone that she’s found you and managed to get up here in less than a minute.

 

You turn over on your perch and raise one single unimpressed eyebrow at her as she lies down besides you.

 

She reciprocates with both brows, smile just a tad too mischievous for your tastes.

 

“12 years now.”

 

Her smile grows, the mischief replaced with sentiment. “Married?”

 

“Five.”

 

She hums to herself at this before turning over and spreading out on the gravel beneath her.

 

“How’d you figure it out?”

 

“You looked ready to murder me every time I so much as mentioned Coulson’s ass. And you both have matching rings.”

 

You frown and run your finger over the cool metal instinctively. You hadn’t known you’d been that transparent.

 

“He good to you?”

 

“Always.”

 

Another hum, this one lower and softer.

 

“Why, interest in a threesome?”

 

Her laugh is sharp and clear, infectious almost. You smile at this and wait for her response.

 

“You offering?”

 

A smile of your own comes forth and you surprise both yourself and her by slipping your arm under her shoulder and pulling her tight against you.

 

You half love her already.

 

“We’re going to have a lot of fun you and me kid.”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

 _You have heart_.

 

These are the words that circle around your head, under the White Noise and they are haunting you.

 

You collect Hydra and A.I.M. and every villain and crook S.H.I.E.L.D. has ever screwed over and you do it gladly. You’d never realized just how much anger you’d been holding inside. You collect weapons and elements and beam under Loki’s praise, under the Tesseract’s truth.

 

You ask for an eyeball and you receive. You ask for a new bow and get the pick of the line. More minions? No problem.

 

You bite down your tongue and don’t ask for your husband because your love for him, for your life with him is something not even the Tesseract can touch. You’ve never been more grateful for your own selfishness.

 

You pack up and get ready to take down one of the only homes you’ve ever known.

 

_You have heart._

 

Not anymore.

 

\--

\--

\-- 

 

Tony Stark is freakin’ certifiable and he is the last thing you need standing at your doorway on a Sunday at five in the morning looking far too pleased with himself.

 

The last time you saw him had been at the unofficial funeral last week where the ‘party’ had had to be cut short because you had started sobbing so loudly you couldn’t breathe or see. You try to close the door on him.

 

“Now now, Barton, I come with gifts.” He holds out a cup of coffee as if it’s the best thing you could have received. You reach forward and smack the cup out of his hands before allowing him inside.

 

He makes a strangled noise of protest as the hot liquid spills over his most likely thousand-dollar suit. You smirk on your way to feed She-Phil the Cat. She comes racing out of the bedroom at the sound of the bowl meeting the floor and hisses momentarily at Stark before digging in. You smile in approval.

 

“Okay, _rude_. Last time I bring you anything ever.”

 

You crunch as loudly as possible on your Cap’n Crunch and allow him to sit down by the counter, scowl firmly in place.

 

“What can I do for you at this ungodly hour Stark?”

 

The scowl slips and a neutral expression follows in its place. “First let me start off by letting you know that this was dear Nicky’s idea… and I also might have had the schematics laid out already.”

 

You raise a hand to stop him because Stark babble is the last thing you need before your brain has even started to function properly. You wave to let him know he can continue a few minutes later.

 

“So yeah, how would you like to join our clubhouse?”

 

You blink slowly a few times, brain trying to play catch up and the soft meowing at your feet brings you back. You reach down and scoop up She-Phil, setting her on your shoulder carefully. She clings on happily and begins to make holes in your only presentable sweatshirt. You sigh and let her.

 

“Are you asking me to move in with you not even three months after my husband’s death? I gotta tell you Stark, that’s fucked up even for you.”

 

He shrugs and taps out a small pattern on the marble beneath his fingertips. “As long as you think about it.”

 

“It’s up to She-Phil. She wears the pants in this relationship.”

 

Stark blinks slowly back at you before focusing his attention on the cat trying to make art out of your sleeve.

 

You’re starting to get why Phil liked him so much.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Budapest is blissful peace for a week.

 

You and Nat are both taking your vacation days for the year with Phil away in California dealing with Tony Stark and it is amazing.

 

The hotel Nat chose is right across from a café that serves the best scones you’ve ever had in your life and your neighbors don’t mind that you spend most of your time very loudly trying to learn Hungarian through Sesame Street.

 

You get a tan, swim around a bit, learn Hungarian and get to watch Natasha break the fingers of every man that makes the mistake of hitting on her when you go out for dinner.

 

Budapest is magic.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You’re not proud of it, but Taylor dresses you for your first official date with Phil.

 

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, leaning back on your elbows while Taylor puts it upon herself to insult just about every article of clothing you own.

 

“Please, tell me this was a gift and not something you yourself wasted money on.”

 

You glance down from the ceiling to catch a glimpse of your favorite sweater. It’s orange, old, faded and has a number of holes in the fabric. But it’s soft, warm and smells like rain on all the right days. You shrug and don’t respond, watching helplessly as she tosses it onto the growing pile on the floor.

 

“Is it too late to cancel? I can get Santiago to find me a mission, something low key but important enough that I’ll be gone for a while.”

 

She shoots you a withering glare from the closet door. “As your therapist – ”

 

“You’re not that good of one.”

 

She continues, ignoring your interruption. “it’s my job to make sure you have at least one functioning, healthy relationship in your life. And as you’re friend – ”

 

“My _only_ friend.”

 

“it’s my job to make sure you’re not alone forever.”

 

You scoff and clear your throat, leaning forward on your knees. “I have you, what are you talking about?”

 

This causes Taylor to pause, bringing her attention over to where you are mentally judging your choice of companions.

 

Her perfect eyebrow raises and, “Barton. I’m your therapist, nearly ten years your senior and the one person in the world that knows all your deepest, darkest secrets and fears… are you really sure it’s all that healthy or professional that you consider me your only friend?”

 

You snort and this is what she didn’t say: _it’s okay because you’re my only friend too._

 

“Thought so.” She turns back to her work and it’s only a minute before she’s spinning back around, looking far too pleased with herself. “Here we go. Put this on now please.”

 

When Phil arrives, twenty minutes later, you answer the door in dark jeans, boots and a dark blue shirt Taylor had insisted will make him want to “shove you against something and eat you up…or out, preferences, you know?”

 

He greets you with a soft smile and a nod and when Taylor pokes her head out of your kitchen, he looks amused as he waves. “Dr. Martin.”

 

She takes this as an invitation to come over and shakes his hand firmly. “Please, Taylor.”

 

You look up at the ceiling and sigh.

 

She doesn’t get the message. “Have my boy back by midnight.”

 

You let out another sigh and shove her hard, grabbing your jacket before maneuvering Phil out the apartment. You turn back to face Taylor and scowl. “Don’t touch my stuff and don’t eat my food.”

 

She closes the door in your face.

 

You face Phil with a nervous smile and gesture towards the elevator. When you try to follow you promptly meet the wall and that sets the tone for the rest of the evening.

 

Phil’s car gives out half way to the restaurant, you and him have both forgotten your personal phones, when you finally get there you end up punching not one, but three assholes making comments and you get the both of you thrown out and caught in the rain.

 

You’re sitting on the corner of the street, soaked to your bones and frowning at Phil by your side. “Sorry I got us kicked out.”

 

All Phil does in response is shrug, loosen his tie and lean against your shoulder.

 

The rain continues to fall on you both for a few more minutes before Phil takes you back, hand clasped tightly in yours.

 

Taylor doesn’t say a word to have you back so soon, just hands you a cup of hot chocolate and sits next to you on the living room floor until you fall asleep.

 

(The second date goes extremely better).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You find out from Fury that Taylor died during Loki’s attack on the Helicarrier – during _your_ attack on the Helicarrier – when you refuse to return to Dr. Lorne.

 

He tells you in a hushed tone, in the middle of the hallway, his hand wrapped tightly around your bicep and you didn’t think it was possible for your chest to ache so much, not after Phil. You thought you’d lost the ability.

 

Surprisingly enough it’s Rogers that finds you, hours later, on HQ’s rooftop, feet dangling over the edge, and not Natasha.

 

He sits by you quietly, hands a few inches from yours. You haven’t seen much of him but what you have seen hasn’t involved much talking and you really have no idea how to start a conversation with your dead husband’s childhood hero.

 

Thankfully he breaks the silence for you. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The sentence is quiet and his voice is small and you think about shoving him off the roof before agreeing with your brain that yeah, Phil would frown upon that.

 

Instead you lean closer to the ledge and close your eyes. “It’s fine.” It’s not fine. Taylor had been your first ally at S.H.I.E.L.D., the first person to talk to you and not see someone damaged beyond repair and sure, Nat’s your soulmate and Phil was the love of your life but Taylor had been your best friend and you’re not sure how to handle this.

 

You swallow around the tears in your throat.

 

“I killed my best friend Bucky.” His voice is tight, pained but you don’t open your eyes to meet his. Some things should remain private. “It was a mission, supposed to be simple enough. There were more guards than we anticipated and he tried to protect me, tried to use my shield but he didn’t have the strength to push back on the force and he – ” You don’t comment on the tears in Roger’s throat and focus on the darkness behind your eyelids. “He fell off of a freakin’ mountain top and I never got to tell him.”

 

You open your eyes now and meet his gaze, his tear filled, painful gaze. You owe him this much you figure, you owe him _something_. “We got married October third and October twentieth of 2006, then we legalized it two years later. We were together for seven years before that and I think I told him I loved him all of thirty times because I have enough monsters in my head to rival Stark’s and we have a fucking cat and I forget how to breathe sometimes.” _I don’t know who I am without him._

 

Roger’s lips tighten and he goes back to looking out into the empty sky. You ignore the tight grip his hand suddenly has on yours. “Thought there’d be more time.” He whispers.

 

“Yeah, don’t we all.”

 

A rough chuckle escapes him and then he’s releasing your hand and standing. “Call me Steve.”

 

You don’t watch him walk away.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Agent Hill is trying to kill you with her eyes.

 

Her gaze follows you during training, meetings, in the cafeteria, in the hallway and you’re pretty sure that if she wanted to get rid of you no one would ever remember you existed.

 

You tell Coulson and he smirks and shrugs. “You’re still new, give her time. Now one hundred more push ups.”

 

You tell Director Fury this when he comes to evaluate the newest recruits himself and he rolls his eyes and sends you away. “Get back to licking those floors Agent.”

 

You tell Agent Sitwell because he seems like an okay dude and he’s always around Agent Coulson anyways and he laughs and, “Probably.”

 

You tell just about anyone who will listen and you get about pretty much the same response over all: no else cares except you… but yeah, definitely.

 

You do your best to avoid her, take the long routes to your therapy sessions and only go to the cafeteria at night or at dawn and you access both the range and gym once she’s signed out for the day.

 

Your plan of avoidance goes fine and well until you’re assigned your first mission and Agent Hill is your S.O. for the duration of it. You sigh and remind yourself to find some way to thank Director Fury for this later on.

 

The mission is simple recon in Berlin but it’ll last a couple of weeks and it’s going to be just you and her and Agent Williams and the latter is known for his silence.

 

Agent Coulson sets you up, makes sure you have all you need from R&D and walks you to the runway.

 

“You’ll avenge me if I come back in a body bag right? I mean I need to know someone will care.”

 

He doesn’t smile at this but he doesn’t have to, you note the slight sparkle in his eyes and the upward turn of his lips. “Agent Hill will do her very best to bring you back home, I don’t doubt it.”

 

“But what if I _accidently_ don’t make it.” You give him air quotations for emphasize.

 

He sighs, the only visible sign of his annoyance with you. At least he hasn’t walked away yet. “I trust Agent Hill with my life. You’ll be fine.”

 

The next turn leads you to the exit for the runway and you can see the wind furiously wiping away at everything and everyone and you desperately want to run back to your quarters. You stay still and turn towards your handler.

 

“Yeah okay but – ”

 

“Agent Barton.” His tone is curt and sharp. “You’ll come back.” _You can trust her._

 

“But how do you _know_?” Now you’re asking just for the hell of out, to see if he’ll snap and shove you off of the rooftop.

 

“Because she told me so.”

 

_Oh._

  

\--

\--

\--

 

You take Stark up on his offer because the apartment is starting to feel haunted and you can see the ghosts of Taylor and Phil in the corner of your eye when you try to sleep in the living room.

 

Rogers and Natasha are there when you arrive and surprisingly enough Banner is too, awkward and to the side and looking pretty comfortable in the tower. Stark looks far too pleased with himself to have all of you guys there and you wonder for a moment just how lonely the man is to be willing to invite such chaos into his home.

 

“Welcome misfit toys.”

 

You lean into Nat and try not to notice the need practically radiating from Stark’s eyes.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Tunisia goes wrong in so, so many ways.

 

Way number one: your contact is a freakin’ idiot who can’t tell north from south.

 

Way number two: your hearing aids decide to give out half way through a very stressful negotiation that leaves you on the sidelines and cursing R&D.

 

Way number three: you can’t make it to extraction so Phil has all of two options, let himself be pierced by over thirteen bullets or jump off of a 40 story building.

 

He makes the jump, comes back to you with only fifty-six bones working in his body and you get to maim each and every person involved.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You realize Nat’s your soulmate about five years into knowing her and you make sure to tell her the minute you come to this realization.

 

You’re in the middle of trying to find a way to get her thighs unwrapped from around your neck when it hits you: _holy effing shit this woman just might be my soulmate._

 

It’s not that much of a shock and Taylor would agree, especially considering how nicely her scars line up with yours. She is one of the few people you trust completely to watch your back on any kind of op and she’s who you go to if Phil’s in medical and she can tell from a single face twitch your every emotion and you’re pretty sure you’re stuck with her. The mere thought of her not being around five years down the line has your chest tightening and yeah, okay, it’s official.

 

Of course all this contemplating lets her knock you to your ass and flip you painfully against the rough gym mat.

 

You wheeze for a few minutes and try to get air back into your lungs while she simply sits by your head, perfect smirk already in place.

 

When you can speak again she hands you a bottle of water and you down half of it in on go. “First off,” you manage to wheeze out. “I need to learn how to do that, seriously. Second, I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re my soulmate so you’re fucking stuck with me.”

 

Instead of calling him a very mean name in Russian the Black Widow shrugs at this and smiles warmly, “Like I was going to go anywhere.”

 

You lean your head against her leg and sigh in relief. “I’d just follow you.”

 

She shoves you off the mat.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You get rid of Dr. Lorne the only way you know how.

 

You push him flat against his nice, glass desk, lick his neck and fuck into him until he can’t speak anymore, can’t do anything but gasp and clutch at your back.

 

You feel sick afterwards and the glass shatters, like you’d known it would and you’re assigned a new therapist a week later.

 

Agent Jones had at least waited until you were finished before reporting you to Fury.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You get to meet Phil’s parents on the fourth of July in 2002 and you fall in love with them instantly.

 

His mother, _call me Pam, really,_ is a baker that hugs you tightly and pats your cheek and tries to fatten you up with pastries.

 

His father, _call me Sam son,_ clasps your hand in his and squeezes tightly and looks at you with such joy and affection you almost drown in it.

 

You spend the weekend becoming used to the way his mother likes to lean on your shoulder when she’s telling a story and the way his father lets you man the grill for a few hours each day and how brightly Jules smiles whenever she sees you.

 

You even get used to the two nieces that try to play tag around your legs and how they each ask to braid your hair. You let them and braid theirs in return.

 

The mini vacation ends with Phil pressing you into his childhood bed and _you’re so amazing I can’t even look at you sometimes_ and you can feel yourself falling deeper into him and this life you’re building with him.

 

You leave Chicago with new numbers in your phone, a firm kiss on your cheek and a new sense of family you haven’t had in too long.

 

(You hold Phil through the night he gets the phone call about the car crash killing his father a month later.

 

You hold Phil through the night he gets the phone call about the heart attack taking his mother five years down the line).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Taylor’s funeral is just as small and quick as Phil’s had been and it seems she had no else but you because you give the eulogy.

 

You’re not sure what you said or how long you stood up there but when you’re done there are people wiping their eyes and Nat offers you a small smile.

 

This time you make it to the privacy of your own car before your chest decides to cave in and you spend the next hour choking out sobs into the lap of the only person you truly have left.

 

\--

 

_The, um, the first time I met Taylor I was twenty-one with too much rage at the world and enough baggage to drown any person. We were both nervous, tired and in no mood for anyone’s bullshit. It’s probably why she became my best friend. Um, I don’t really know how to describe her or even why I should have to. I’m assuming most of you knew her pretty well or you wouldn’t be here. But I’ll give it a shot. Martin was sarcastic, sharp as a tack and so quick to anger I sometimes really wondered which one of us was the psych patient. She was, not that good of a professional, let me tell you but she was an amazing friend and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. She’s probably the reason I got married, kept me sane through the whole thing. She was exactly what I needed and I…_

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The day Steve Rogers is discovered, covered head to toe in ice is the same day you and Phil _finally_ get back from New Mexico. From gods and magic and a scientist who babbles too much with an assistant – **_friend_** _, jeez, someone would think you want to get rid of me. here loser, my number and so help you if you don’t stay in touch_ – you’re stuck with for life.

 

The call comes in while Phil’s in the shower, cleaning dust and humidity off of his skin.

 

“Phil’s phone. He can’t get to you right now because he’s busy showering and then after he’s going to ravish me. Sexually. Please call back later.”

 

Fury sighs into the line and you grin against the receiver. “Tell him to suit up and head down to G, there’s something he needs to see.”

 

You roll your eyes but agree to tell him and when Phil returns home two days later, eyes bright with excitement you can feel more change coming.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You buy the apartment because it’s cheap and close to HQ and there’s not much else you can do with the salary you’re given.

 

You’re allowed to file for off campus quarters once you reach level two and the building seems nice enough not to have any lurking S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

 

You settle in and smile at your small but welcoming space and… is that scratching you hear?

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You share your floor with Nat once you’ve settled in and She-Phil the Cat loves the new space, takes every chance she can get to climb over the furniture, on the furniture, over and on your house mates and you’re lucky Stark is still obviously pitying you.

 

The space is open and wide and there’s glass everywhere and it’s pristine and expensive and slightly suffocating. Phil would probably shit a brick if he knew how much the coffee machine alone costs.

 

But you try not to think too much about Phil these days because tears and sobs and faint guilt usually accompany those thoughts.

 

(You end up dropping the coffee machine off of the terrace and it takes Stark a week to notice).

 

\--

 

(And, okay, so yeah you’re a _little_ bit guilty about Dr. Lorne and _I once spent four months trapped in a wooden box. I like to see what’s around me_ and he hadn’t even been that bad you can admit now.

 

Good thing Phil’s no longer around to act as your conscious because you push it from your mind and head down to the range to try and put some of your tired to use).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Phil tries to explain it to you once, how he and Fury work. It’s nine months into… whatever you two now are and it’s nice and comfortable and when he touches you, you feel sparks rush through your legs.

 

He tells you in bed, arms thrown over your chest and he presses a kiss to your jawline. “Director Fury and I… Marcus recruited me, plucked me right out of the Army Rangers and he’s the only reason I’ve made it as long as I have. The reason for half of the scars I own.”

 

You hear what he doesn’t say. _I owe him everything_ and _please understand why sometimes he has to come first._

You press your fingers into the raised skin around his mid section and lean closer.

 

\--

\-- 

\--

 

You fully come to realize what a complete and total badass Agent Coulson is the first day he hands you your ass on a platter.

 

It’s in the gym, in the boxing area to be precise and he takes you out in a minute flat, slamming you down with a simple flick of his wrist.

 

You gasp up at him, try to ignore the pain coming from your shoulder and marvel at how goddamn sexy he looks standing over you.

 

“Again Agent.”

 

You scramble up and spend the rest of the afternoon gladly being pushed around by him.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Banner is nothing like you expected.

 

You hadn’t been on ground when the incident between the Hulk and the Abomination had happened but you had heard the stories, had seen the destruction post battle yourself and you’d reviewed the footage of the Helicarrier, had poured through those last few days religiously.

 

You had expected someone quiet and pushed back, in the background and you honestly hadn’t even thought the doctor would return from wherever he had gone off to after they had seen Loki off.

 

But it’s been about three weeks since you’ve moved into the tower and you are pretty sure you’ve never met anyone filled with so much wit and such a dry sense of humor.

 

Just watching Banner interact with Stark is a revelation and the way he fires back comeback after comeback has you grinning despite yourself.

 

You note, as you listen to Banner and Roger fuss around in the kitchen, just how much Phil would have liked the man behind the beast.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Your first mission ends with you negotiating Maria Hill’s release with a swollen eye, a bloody lip and a broken leg with only one bullet in your gun.

 

She thanks you after, when you’re flying back to HQ bloody and bruised and you can tell it’s taking a lot for her to say this.

 

You’re about to reciprocate, glad she no longer wants to kill you and –

 

“Hurt him and I’ll kill you.”

 

Your eyes widen and you scramble upwards in your seat, heat rising from your neck and –

 

“Save it Agent. Don’t try to deny it. Just… be patient with him.”

 

You know you should thin your lips, nod and try to catch some sleep but come on, when else are you going to get this chance? “Yeah, I guess you could say I’m warm for his fo – ”

 

“Barton don’t make me regret what I just said.” She cuts in, expression exasperated but no more annoyed than it ever is.

 

You do nod now and yeah okay, that was a cheap shot. Still, the ex of the man you want to viciously bang just gave you her blessing so it’s been a pretty good day overall.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors are complete and total assholes and you’re seriously contemplating calling Taylor so she can tell these idiots that “he is my boyfriend and I do so have every right to see him!”

 

The nurse looks very unimpressed with your outburst and maybe it’s not working in your favor that she’s the one always on call when you decide to skip out on medical. “Look sweetie, I’m sure the doctor’s will get you the minute there’s anything to report.”

 

“Lady, look, aren’t I his medical proxy? That means I get to see him right?”

 

Again, unimpressed. “That means you can make any decisions that Agent Coulson himself is not conscious to make. Now, the second there’s something life threatening going on I’m sure you’ll be called.” She turns away now and you sit back down in a huff, arms crossed tight over your chest.

 

It takes you a second to realize there are more people than there had been a few minutes ago.

 

“What’d the nurse say?” Maria asks, casually flipping through a nutrition magazine across from you. Jasper is to your left and playing some kind of complicated game on his new flip phone.

 

You glance back and forth between them and, “Um, that the doctor will let me know anything if it comes up.”

 

The magazine falls away and she’s scowling and you recognize that look; it’s the one you used to get. “I’ll be right back.”

 

She turns a minute later and informs you that the doctor will be out in five minutes to give an update.

 

You choke on your own spit and then look to Jasper for an explanation. The man continues to play on his phone for a few moments before feeling your eyes on him. He simply gives a subtle shrug. “I’ve never liked Tunisia that much anyways.”

 

You don’t fight the grin that appears on your face and lean towards Jasper, allowing the exhaustion to finally take over.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Rog – Steve, it’s _Steve_ now. You have to start remembering that. The last time you called him Rogers the younger man had frowned and sighed and you’re pretty sure it’ll illegal to make an American icon look that defeated.

 

So yeah, _Steve_ is a pretty cool dude once you get over the image Phil had put into your mind with all his fanboying and all tension from the rooftop.

 

He is _nothing_ like the comics, first of all. The comics displayed him as righteous and soldier like, rigid and blushing and anal and serious. As proper and for the good of America and self-sacrificing and this is the Steve Rogers the world got to know after his death.

 

The real Steve Rogers curses like a sailor, eats enough for three, makes jokes at Stark’s expense at all hours of the day and picks up technology too fast for Stark’s liking apparently. Tells dirty army jokes to watch Banner chuckle, is as messy as you and is pretty selfish when it comes to what’s his.

 

The man leading your team, the living legend is exactly the kind of person you would have been perfectly happy befriending a few months ago.

 

You can picture all the trouble you would have gotten into with him, Fury’s face stern as he explained why it wasn’t okay to dare a national icon to jump from rafter to rafter.

 

But you’re too tired for new friends right now, still too raw and the sight of Steve makes you think of blood and death and war and Phil was in the Rangers long enough to have the scars and stories and PTSD to prove it.

 

You avoid him like the plague and pretend not to notice his hurt expression when he watches you walk away.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You have no idea what you did to piss off Fury this time but babysitting a hunk of glowing space rock doesn’t seem like something anyone should have to do, honestly.

 

You’d been there, when Fury had brought it in for Selvig to examine and you’d known right then and there you were in for some long and boring months.

 

Surveillance has been easy enough, smooth going with no alarms raised and you get to spend each day up high, eyes examining the room at a whole. The scientists don’t pay you any mind, used to you above them and nosy but Selvig makes his disapproval clear each time you’re in his sights. You make sure to climb even higher and jump down behind him as often as you can.

 

On the morning of the fifth month of doing absolutely nothing you turn over and smile at Phil’s sleeping, drooling form.

 

You run your fingers through his thinning hair and kiss his forehead softly. This snaps him awake, eyes open and arms winding around you instinctively. “Morning sex?” He mumbles slowly, turning to wipe his mouth on the corner of his pillow.

 

Your smile grows at this and you shake your head. “Nah, just wanted to say bye. I need to go in early.”

 

He lifts his head to eye the alarm clock behind you and frowns. “Dr. Selvig has you over at three in the morning?”

 

“We’re heading to the main Facility today, Tesseract’s been acting up a bit, turning on and off without command after hours.”

 

Phil straightens at this, the last remains of sleep slipping away. “What have the readings been showing?”

 

You shake your head and detangle yourself from him, grabbing the first pair of boxer briefs your fingers come into contact with. “Don’t even start. Not bringing this shit home. Bad enough you’re all I have left right now.” The tone is both teasing and serious and you know Phil is refraining from reminding you that Natasha’s undercover on an important op right now and that Taylor does in fact have a life outside of you.

 

You hear him lie back down and spread out as you quickly get dressed in your gear, hands moving automatically to set everything into place. “Yeah well, I’ll be by the Facility today anyways. There are some last minute tweaks Fury wants made to some of the plans Stark brought over.”

 

You hum in response, reaching for your stashed away quiver. Before you can set it on however Phil is there, pressed against your back, nose in the center of your spine.

 

You smile and lean back, hands reaching behind you for his. They find them easily and you hold tightly onto him. “You okay back there sir?”

 

He bites down lightly on your jacket before nodding into you. “Just wanted to know how you wanted to spend the weekend.”

 

You pause, confusion seeping in before disappearing, quickly replaced with guilt. You don’t offer an apology, he won’t take it but you know it bothers him that this is the second year you’ve forgotten. You don’t know how to tell him about Barney, he probably knows, has known all along and that… you don’t say anything, instead focus on trying to make up for it.

 

“I’ve heard Spain’s nice this time of year.”

 

A soft chuckle. “Your Spanish is horrible.”

 

You twist around and pull him into your arms, falling back onto the sheets with him wrapped into your side. You press a soft kiss to his temple and shrug. “We can’t go back to Iceland, I think those warrants are still valid.”

 

“…Natasha mentioned something about Australia last week. You can finally learn how to surf.”

 

You scoff and shake your head, “Nah, not in the mood for much of a tan.”

 

You can feel his smirk against your chest and sigh. “Shut up, that was one time.” He doesn’t respond and you look down to note he’d fallen asleep on you, mouth open yet again. “Jesus that was quick.” You whisper, toeing off your boots as best you can without too much movement.

 

Selvig will just have to get started without you.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The day Stark finally convinces Dr. Foster to come in you’re leaning over the roof of the tower, eyes trained on the entrance, nerf darts in hand.

 

This isn’t the first time you’ve played _scare the civilians_ but it’s the first time anything remotely interesting has happened.

 

You recognize Darcy first, trailing behind the brunette scientist in a too big sweater, bright beanie and juggling three large folders along with two coffee cups. The sight of her sends warmth through you and it makes you ache in a completely new way. If she’s here you’re _screwed_.

 

(Phil saw into your heart, Nat your soul, Taylor your mind and Darcy… let’s not go there).

 

You make your way back into the tower to greet them, stand a few feet from where the main service elevator will leave them.

 

In the time it takes the elevator to bring them up to the 60th floor, Steve comes out of doorway leading to the communal gym, shirtless and with a towel thrown over his body. You take a moment to appreciate the younger man, childe yourself a second afterwards and then realize it doesn’t matter because if Phil were there, he would be staring right with you. It makes you feel a bit better.

 

“Clint, we expecting anyone?” He asks, reaching for a water bottle you hadn’t noticed on the counter.

 

You nod, swallow some guilt and fear and “Stark’s finally managed to get Jane Foster to stop by. There’s still work to be done on rebuilding the Bridge in case Thor ever needs to come back.”

 

Steve breaks out in a grin and he leans against the counter across from you. It’s been a while since you’ve seen someone smile so genuinely and it takes you a moment to focus back on his words. “That’s great, it’ll be good to have some new faces around here.”

 

You’re saved the trouble of responding and adding to the conversation with the opening of the elevator doors.

 

Darcy and Dr. Foster step out, chatting between themselves, oblivious to their audience. You know the second Darcy notices you because she stops, drops the folders, shoves the coffee at the shorter woman and rushes towards you.

 

You take her into your arms, pull her tight and try not to cry. Her body is small against you and you take her in, desperate for something familiar. New Mexico, post Thor, had consisted of five months surveillance and long coffee runs and bar hops and take out and _Darcy._

 

She pulls away first, wipes at her eyes and smiles up at you. “Hey hunk, how you doing?”

 

She’s heard. You swallow, pain rising up and shrug, “I’ve been better.” Try not to think about that day she’d convinced Phil to go to happy hour, how she’d danced circles around you guys and how afterwards she’d taken you both by the hand and walked you back to base.

 

You look over her head to wave at Dr. Foster, who looks too sad and nostalgic for your comfort. “Hey doc.”

 

The scientist offers a timid smile, clutching the coffees tighter in her hands.

 

You ignore Steve’s confusion and pull Darcy back into you. You deserve all the comfort right now.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You lied to Taylor.

 

You and Bobbi fuck, once, in one of the many abandoned rooms near the end of B block and afterwards you’re left sitting on the floor and trying not to think about Phil.

 

Bobbi sits next to you and leans her head on your shoulder, body warm and familiar.

 

“What’s their name?” She asks once it’s clear you’re not going to offer up any information.

 

You shake your head and close your eyes against the burning in your chest.

 

She links your arm with yours and rides out the pain with you.

 

(You hate that all you can give her is _almost_ love).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You find out the WSC’s been out for you for a while the same day Nat sells her soul to them.

 

She sells her soul to them for you, tells them about the Red Room, more than anyone’s ever known and the experiments. Tells them how she hasn’t aged in over fifty years. Tells them how the Black Widow name isn’t passed down but has always been her.

 

She sells her soul to them for you, to keep you out of prison for life, away from the death penalty and she sells it behind your back.

 

You put a fist shaped hole into your wall and don’t forgive her.

 

(You’ve never known how to handle love like hers).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You do get back into contact with Barney.

 

It’s right after the wedding, while you’re still on a high from Phil’s hands all over you that morning and you’re dialing the number for his prison before you’re even aware of it.

 

It takes a few minutes for them to connect you over to him but the minute you hear his voice over the line you can’t breath.

 

You hang up right away and curl back into Phil’s sleeping arms.

 

(He convinces you later to call back and holds your hand tightly as you and your brother cry for each other, offering half assed apologies and mumbled words.

 

He convinces you to visit him months later, in Virginia and is there in the car waiting when you need someone to hold you together so you don’t start screaming from the pain.)

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Dr. Bruce Banner returns to the states the same day you’ve planned an anniversary weekend getaway.

 

You’ve gotten approval from Fury, help from Maria, snark from Jasper and Taylor booked everything for you online.

 

You are packed and ready to go and all is left is to find some way to convince Phil he won’t be needed at S.H.I.E.L.D. for the next few days.

 

You barely make it to his office before he’s flying out, an apology leaving his lips as he dashes down the hallway. You watch his retreat mournfully and set yourself up on his lumpy couch.

 

When he doesn’t return that night you head to the airport anyways.

 

(You take the trip alone).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Bobbi finds you on one of the rare days you decide to grace HQ with your presence. You’ve been avoiding the Helicarrier as much as possible (no matter how much they scrub all you can see is blood) so you honestly hadn’t expected to see her any time soon.

 

(You try not to think about your arrival on the Helicarrier, Loki twisting you and Bobbi’s anguished, steeled face as she fired at you).

 

She finds you with Darcy in the cafeteria, lunch hour nearing its end. The table is in the corner near the back and the empty tables surrounding you speak volumes to how well everyone is doing remembering you’re no longer being controlled.

 

She sits down across from you as Darcy tries to explain the science behind Star Trek – _it’s totally plausible, I swear –_ and the sight of her has your throat tightening.

 

Darcy pauses, glances at Bobbi and then focuses very intently on the wall besides her. The amount of love you feel for her in that instant almost suffocates you.

 

“Clint, I wanted to come see how you were doing.” Her voice is soft, gentle and you hate it. She’s never gone easy on you and this really isn’t the time for her to change her behavior around you. “With Martin and Coulson and I…”

 

You don’t ask where she was for the funeral or even why she kept her distance for so long after your wedding because you know, of course you do. (You wish you could be what she needed).

 

She takes your silence in stride and squeezes your hand swiftly before standing. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

 

Darcy glances back once it’s just you and her, hand reaching for you right away. “Hey, that Morse?”

 

You nod, digging back into your lumpy soup. Marina’s been gone sick for a week now and Carl doesn’t make it like she does.

 

She’s quiet for a moment, nibbling down on her thumb before asking, “Do you know she’s totally into you?”

 

Another nod, more eating. This is the last place you want to have this conversation, especially with Darcy.

 

“You guys ever…?” She waggles her eyebrows, not as perfect as Taylor but close enough for the sight to be painful for you.

 

You focus back on her, spoon down. “Once, before Phil. It didn’t go anywhere.” You don’t mention how madly in love with Phil you’d been, even then.

 

“Did you?” And she sounds so young, so new and fresh and sometimes you forget she’s only twenty-four and pure.

 

You swallow and figure if anyone deserves to know the truth it’s Darcy. “I could have loved her… hell, I probably could have loved _you_ that way at one point. But Phil, Phil was always more than enough.” You don’t think about late Sunday mornings and socked feet and spilled orange juice. _He was…he_ is _air._

 

Darcy doesn’t look startled at the reveal of your could have been feelings for her. She simply smiles sadly, leans her head against your shoulder and digs into her salad. “In another lifetime maybe.”

 

You don’t tell her that you’d choose Phil, over and over again, in any lifetime, in any universe. You also don’t ask if she was referring to Bobbi or to herself.

 

You put an arm around her and continue eating.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You meet Jules by accident, on a Wednesday and it’s completely and totally Phil’s fault, no matter what he tries to pin on you.

 

You’re downtown, having been offered a reprieve from paperwork to retrieve your lovely handler some coffee that does not “taste completely like shit”.

 

You’re on your way back to the Helicarrier’s landing pad, knowing that if you miss take off Jasper will never let you forget it, when you hear a voice a few feet away call you out.

 

“Clint Barton?”

 

The coffee drops from your hands and you reach for your gun automatically, spinning around for the source. No one except S.H.I.E.L.D. and its enemies know your name; to the rest of the world Clinton Francis Barton died in an alleyway nearly five years ago alone and bloody.

 

The face of the exclamation is female, mid forties and her hair is a dark familiar color and her eyes… the smirk on her face as she approaches you gives her away. Jules Coulson.

 

Her sticks her hand out and you take it slowly, offering a small smile. Don’t. Panic.

 

“Hey, I know this must seem really weird but I’ve seen your picture and – ” Picture?

 

You stop her from further embarrassment. “It’s okay, really, it’s just… Phil didn’t tell me his sister would be in town this week.”

 

Her eyes shimmer with mirth and you suddenly understand that you’re being ambushed. “I wanted to surprise him, maybe finally get to see the infamous office.”

 

You know neither her nor Phil’s parents have been read in, that as far as they’re concerned he is an accountant for the government and is nothing except ordinary. You still think about it though, just to catch Fury’s expression.

 

You try to make your face look as disappointed as possible. Acting has always been Phil’s talent, not yours. “Ah, not possible today, big meeting with the executives.” Appropriate pause. “But you know what, you should come over for dinner, bring Alan and the kids if they’re with you.”

 

Phil is going to _murder_ you.

 

Jules’ eyes light up and yeah, it’ll be a justified death.

 

(Phil almost hyperventilates when he enters your apartment that night to catch sight of you and his sister playing a very loud game of monopoly in the living room).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“Katniss front and center please.”

 

You stand up, dragging your feet as you make your way over to the center of the lab.

 

This isn’t the first time Stark has had you on standby, tried to use you as a test monkey and it definitely won’t be the last but you still walk over slowly, weariness dragging you down.

 

Things are still tense around Stark, as you usually tend to avoid the labs. But he hasn’t blown you up yet so he gets credit for that much. You stand where he points to and watches as he moves around the mess that he dares to call a table before turning towards you.

 

In his hands are a pair of small, skin toned hearing aids.

 

“I didn’t – ”

 

Stark waves a hand in the air, dismissing you. “It was in your file. Plus I’ve caught you and Romanoff signing a few times. Figured it was time to make you some new ones.”

 

You take them from him, slowly and try to find some way to offer thanks, to let him know how much this means to you. There have been plenty of missions where your hearing aids had left you rather useless and the thought of that happening during another invasion scares you shitless.

 

You settle for a simple, gruff, “Thanks man.”

 

He shrugs in response, leaning against the table. “No problem. One condition though.”

 

You bite down a sigh and nod.

 

“Teach me as many dirty signs as possible.”

 

You shove him and make your way back upstairs.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“Pam wants a big wedding.”

 

Taylor doesn’t look up from where she’s playing with She-Phil the Cat and Natasha snorts from her position on the floor.

 

The three of you are watching an old marathon of Dog Cops, the  latter two drinking cheap beer and trying to successfully share a single _bowl_ of Rolos between all of you.

 

You frown and say it again, in case they missed it.

 

Nat looks up now, a single eyebrow raised and oh you so regret the day her and Taylor met. “Yeah, so?”

 

You straighten yourself up and snatch the bowl from its spot on her stomach. “Yeah, so? Seriously? Am I the only one who seems to remember that the wedding won’t even be legal? That it’s just for show? Why make all the old farts come out to Chicago?”

 

Taylor glances your way now, letting She-Phil the Cat roam free. “Clint, sweetie, she’s his mother. Let her have this.”

 

You scowl and kick at her feet viciously. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

 

Her and Nat share an exasperated glance and you hate that you have no close male friends. You’re sure this conversation would be going much differently if you did.

 

You don’t tell Taylor this because it’ll just be one more thing for her to analyze. You simply turn away from them and focus on the screen.

 

A sharp tug on your arm brings you back and both of your girls are smirking at you now, expressions matching and you’re in trouble now, you can feel it.

 

“Is this because you _want_ the wedding to be legal?”

 

“Because you know S.H.I.E.L.D. can get you guys a license.”

 

“And even then there’s always Canada.”

 

“We’ll talk to Pam if you need to, it’ll be fine.”

 

“She’ll listen to reason we’re sure.”

 

“But it would be nice for Coulson, you know how he is about family.”

 

You listen to them go back and forth, offering up options and solutions and yeah, okay, screw male friends; they’re all you could possibly need.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You hear about the Avengers Initiative first from Hill, in a meeting that still sometimes haunts your dreams and then again, years later from Fury, right after Tony Stark has announced to the world that he is Iron Man.

 

You’re called into Fury’s office not two hours after the world has gained its first – _sorry, sorry Phil, jeez. **second**_ – superhero.

 

You’re pretty sure it’s been a while since you’ve broken anything and you helped repair that last ventilation system you broken. You run through a list of your past few ops but can’t remember anything too critical, Budapest still circling through your veins.

 

Fury puts a halt to your thoughts by slamming a folder before you, smirking at your light jump.

 

“Agent, have you ever heard of the Avengers Initiative.”

 

You frown and nod. “Once, from Hill.”

 

His fingers lace together and he leans back into his seat, pleased. “Were you aware you had been recommended for the program?”

 

“Um, yeah. Hill told me Coulson put my name in.”

 

“Good. Now, let’s talk about your future.”

 

You sit through an hour long meeting on _rising above_ and _special individuals_ and _protectors_ and you wonder for a second just who exactly created this program, Fury or Phil.

 

You leave said meeting smirking and buzzing with energy and you get to be _special_ (make up for the red in your ledger, the screams that haunt your dreams, the blood under your eyelids).

 

(The WSC is made up of a bunch of _assholes_ so the Initiative gets scrapped before it’s even begun and the red in your ledger grows).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“You believe in the afterlife?”

 

Banner looks up, startled for a moment, glasses dangling at the very edge of his nose.

 

These are the first words you’ve said to him since you entered his lab hours ago and spread yourself out on his couch. He hadn’t said a word, simply gave a smile and continued doing science or whatever.

 

He stops now, pushing away from the counter.

 

“I’d like to think there’s more after this.”

 

You hum, squint at the vents above you and wonder how much weight they can take. “You believe in Heaven?”

 

A shuffle of feet and he’s leaning over you then, face long and understanding. “Agent Coulson seemed like a good man.”

 

You sit up quickly, quickly enough to startle the scientist into moving a few steps back. You pretend not to notice. “He was the best kind of man. And he deserves Heaven, if there is one.” You don’t think about that one lazy afternoon when you and him had been high off of sex and seriously contemplating children, contemplating if religion would be a factor in their life. It had been a great afternoon.

 

Banner pauses for a moment before lacing his fingers together. “Was he a religious man?”

 

A sharp snort escapes you before you can stop it. “Jesus no.” A smile before you can stop it. “But he always went to the chapel after a hard mission, after a long medical stay. It was peaceful he’d say. Believing in something bigger than him helped I think, even if he never had time to commit.”

 

“Then I’m sure he’s happy, wherever he is.”

 

You catch his gaze, notice the lack of pity and _hate_ that Phil will never get to know this man. It’s not fair and that steals your breath away.

 

“Yeah, thanks doc.” You leave without a glance back.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“Move in with me.”

 

The comm link goes silent and that’s when you remember, oh yeah, Sanders and Sitwell are on the same line. You press your forehead against your sniper rifle for a moment, marveling at your own stupidity and then turn your attention back to the target.

 

The only bad part about being a sniper, a bowman is that sometimes the wait lasts for days, with nothing to fill the silence. And this leaves time for your brain to go to work, for your thoughts to attack themselves and decide that yeah, asking your husband to move in would be nice.

 

A throat clears. “Hawkeye – ”

 

You’ve already broken radio silence so you go with it. “Sir, we’ve been married now for three years, I think it’s safe to live in the same place.”

 

It’s not. Safe to live in the same place, that is. Sure all of S.H.I.E.L.D. knows that both of you are married and sure most of your enemies know too but keeping separate quarters has helped put a stop to one too many kidnappings and shared nightmares. The thought of living together hadn’t even been discussed during the wedding planning; after the short honeymoon you both had spend one last night together and then went back to your respective apartments.

 

And it had worked fine. Until last night.

 

Last night you had woken up, the Swordsman and Trick Shot and twisted metal and blood on your tongue and when you had reached towards the right, for your anchor, for your husband, he hadn’t been there.

 

“We’ll discuss this later.” His tone holds no amusement and yeah, okay, you know you crossed a line. That the last thing you should have brought up was that but Jesus, the nights have gotten hard enough lately without him by your side.

 

Still, it isn’t a no. So you press your finger against the trigger and wait for the order.

 

(He moves in anyways and the afternoon is spent throwing around boxes, carefully putting away Captain America memorabilia and having lazy sex).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You kind of regret ever leaving your floor.

 

“Wait, what do you mean you don’t know how to use the television?” Stark gasps, hands clutching the remote desperately in his hands. The man looks pretty scandalized for three in the morning and the sight is almost enough to make you turn around and head back upstairs.

 

Steve is sitting across from the man, the most innocent expression you have ever seen on his face. It’s total bullshit. “I’ve never had time to learn.”

 

You bite down a snort; just last week you’d walked in on the man yelling at the flat screen, a baseball game approaching the ninth inning. You don’t give him away however; just lean against the doorway, wanting to see how this will all play out.

 

Stark makes a strangled noise, sighs and then walks over to the television. “Okay Rogers, from the beginning, this here is the screen, it’s where you can view everything. And this hear is the cable box it’s where…”

 

You cannot believe this is happening right now. There is no way Stark can be this dense, the man’s a freakin’ genius! How does he not see that twinkle in Steve’s eyes? The way the corner of his mouth is turning up? He’s laughing at him and Stark isn’t even noticing.

 

And it’s things like this that make you want to unravel Steve Rogers. You want to crack him open and learn all his inner workings. What makes him tick, why his eyes sometimes get such a far away look you’re left breathless. Why he likes to let Stark believe he’s a bumbling idiot.

 

He’s your friend, sort of, and this makes you want to learn all you can about the man. It’s part of why you’re so good at your job, the way you see things, how quickly you see them. And Steve Rogers is no exception.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You quickly discover that Sitwell is pretty much Coulson’s only friend besides Hill and Fury.

 

Mostly because every time you get caught staring at Coulson’s ass, either Hill laughs or Sitwell glares.

 

You have no idea what you’ve done to make the other man so dismissive of you – okay so the exploding coffee pot _might_ have been your fault but how were you supposed to know he’d walk in at that exact time? – but you’re pretty sure there is no way you’re going to get into Coulson’s pants if all his friends hate you.

 

Okay, Hill and Fury don’t hate you exactly. Hill’s already given her blessing and Fury likes that you “have moxie kid, keep it up” whatever the hell that means.

 

So the only problem is Sitwell, who is right up there with Coulson and has lunch with him and makes the junior agents cry with his drills and who dragged you out of the vents the last time he’d caught you.

 

So the only obvious solution is to suck up to him in every way imaginable.

 

You start out by bringing him coffee, not really taking into account that the last time he had been around both you _and_ coffee he’d received a second degree burn.

 

“What in the holy hell is that?” He snaps, eyeing you wearily.

 

You give him your biggest grin and then shrink it a bit when he starts to step back. Okay, got it, don’t smile. “Coffee sir. Figured you needed it.”

 

“Uh huh…did you, do something to it?”

 

You gasp and put a hand over your chest. “What? Me? Sir I would _never_. It’s just a little pick me up.”

 

He squints at you and okay so the sarcasm isn’t helping. Damn you and your natural wittiness.

 

“Sir if you don’t want it I can just go give it to Agent Coulson.” Real smooth Barton, nice, real nice.

 

A snort escapes the Hispanic man at that and he takes the cup away from you. “Go finish that report Barton.”

 

You go back to your best shit-eating grin. “Yes Sir.”

 

The second step is making him think of you and missions in a good light. This doesn’t go well.

 

Yeah, you’d forgotten how hard it is to maintain radio silence during watches.

 

“My loneliness is killing me! I must confess, I still believe, _still believe_! When I'm not with you I lose my mind! Give me a siiiign! _Hit_ me baby one more time!”

 

“Hawkeye oh my god shut your mouth.” Sitwell growls into your ear. So maybe this was the fourth Britney Spears song you’ve sang, so what? A man can enjoy a variety of artists.

 

“But it’s so damn catchy sir.”

 

A strangled noise comes over the comm link and you grin, lower your hearing aids a bit. Sitwell will yell if he really needs to grab your attention.

 

“You have so many relationships in this life, only one or two will last. You go through all the pain and strife, then you turn your back and they're gone – ”

 

“ _Hawkeye_ stop with the damn MMMBop or I will personally shoot you out of the damn tree.”

 

“Sir I am offended, Hanson is classic.”

 

The mission ends with the target escaping and you with a very Sitwell shaped bruise on your side. Totally worth it.

 

The next step is getting him to like you, since the last step failed horribly. Hence karaoke night. You regret it the second you mention it.

 

Sitwell actually looks pretty interested, agrees to spread the word and _crap_. Shit cakes, this was _not_ the plan. The plan was to go out with Sitwell and Hill and Taylor (your accomplices in this mission) and woo him into friendship.

 

Now half of S.H.I.E.L.D. is going. Which means Coulson is probably going.

 

The night ends about as well as anything ever does for you. You babysitting all the baby agents that can’t hold their liquor and Coulson three tables away, grinning away as Hill does a _very_ raunchy interpretation of Bloodhound Gang’s _Bad Touch_. You have officially seen it all.

 

And your staring at Coulson like he has hung that damn moon is probably why you don’t notice until it’s too late that Sitwell is watching you.

 

“Your eyes will dry up if you don’t blink.”

 

You whirl around to face the voice, knocking over two sleeping junior agents in your wake. “Hmm?”

 

Sitwell rolls his eyes and points his beer to where Coulson is rooting on Hill, eyes bright with warmth. “You need to stop looking at him like that or he’s going to notice.”

 

“Um, I…”

 

He snorts now, taking a sip from the bottle. “Jesus Barton relax. I won’t say anything. Though I’m sure you won’t find much protest from his end.”

 

Wait what? “Wait what?” Eloquent as always Barton.

 

“Look, just, be careful okay? He might seem all put together but he’s not. Man’s got some ghosts he needs to take care of before he’s ready for you.”

 

All you can do is nod at this and he’s walking away looking far too pleased with himself, which wow, yeah okay. Approval from all three.

 

Okay. Now if you could just get Coulson on board.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The Avengers hold an intervention for you six months after the Battle of New York. Apparently not sleeping for days on end, holing up in your bedroom with no food and ignoring your cat are all considered _bad things_.

 

It doesn’t go well.

 

You scream, Nat screams, Stark snarks, Steve sighs, and Banner mumbles through the whole thing.

 

(You sleep at your old apartment that night, She-Phil the Cat clutched tightly to your chest. Steve drags you back a week later).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The _official_ wedding is officiated by Marcus because he is one petty motherfucker and it’s as short as the first two.

 

You rewrite your vows, slap on a new suit and put up with Taylor’s nagging.

 

Phil looks just as beautiful, more beautiful, as the day you first took his hand and again, the married sex is awesome.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You learn quickly the difference between Natasha and the Black Widow. Have to, in order to be around her, in order to be her friend.

 

Natasha is a freakin’ dork that is far too fond of puns and corny jokes. She loves emoticons and trashy romance novels and pink wine and is far too handsy when she’s drunk. She thrives on physical contact, your physical contact and isn’t afraid to out sass you on her worst days.

 

The Black Widow is ruthless and cold and can break a man down in two seconds in eleven different ways. She thrives on adrenaline and violence and rage because that’s what she was taught. She fights tooth and nail and doesn’t leave survivors and has no time for anyone’s shit but her own.

 

You learn to love both of them, both parts of her, in different ways and pretty quickly.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Thor comes back to earth on a Sunday and you’re in the communal kitchen when it happens.

 

You’re there, with Nat, trying to decide whether or not you should risk trying out Stark’s new coffee machine when there’s a sharp rumble behind you, on the runway just a few yards away.

 

Nat’s knives are in her hands in seconds and you reach for your gun quickly, smoothly sliding in the new Stark approved clip.

 

The sight that greets you however has you setting down your weapon and sighing because it looks like you’re going to have to start sharing Darcy again.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You can’t help that you’re a natural flirt, okay? You might not be a good one per se, but you do it automatically either way. It’s your first instinct when dealing with certain targets and sometimes it’s really either flirt or go into panic mode.

 

You flirt with all your S.O.’s and all your handlers before you get put with Coulson permanently and you maybe sweet talk Marina into giving you extra jello. And the other junior agents to cut in line. And the R&D department when they’re not fast enough with your new arrows. Heck even Taylor before she shut you down so hard it left you gasping.

 

Point being, you’re a friendly guy. It’s just the way it is.

 

You never really considered that Coulson would flirt back.

 

The first time he responds to an eyebrow waggle with a low grin you nearly fall out of the air vent.

 

“You all right up there Barton?”

 

You gasp, rub at your neck and nod, “Um, yeah sir, just swallowed some…air wrong?” You roll your eyes at yourself. You’re as smooth as crunchy peanut butter sometimes.

 

“Well please do your best not to die while hanging over me. I’d hate to have to drag your carcass down from there.”

 

You scrunch up your face at this and glare down at him. “Sure thing sir. Don’t mind me, I’ll just be here…hanging.”

 

Silence on his end and the soft movement of laptop keys. Okay, so maybe you did imagine that grin.

 

“Wouldn’t want to be a distraction.” You add on and oh my god you are a child. You consider stuffing your shooting glove into your mouth to keep from saying anything else before the older man beneath you is swirling around in his seat and leaning back, catching your eyes.

 

“I’ll try my best to contain myself Barton.”

 

Your head slams down on the metal keeping you suspended and yeah, okay, he was flirting back. Noted. You crawl away and leave him to his work before you can throw yourself at him.

 

(A week later you’ve killed a man and Coulson comforts you by fucking you into the wall).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You see Dr. Lorne again, on the Helicarrier and it’s awkward for about a second.

 

He smirks at you, tired and just a tad angry and you wonder just how many levels they bumped him down. Wonder how Fury managed to keep you at Level Eight.

 

“Barton, wrecking havoc as usual I suspect?”

 

“Lorne, screwing your patients as usual I assume?”

 

The comments are said lowly, slight anger behind them but as your gaze meets his you see no resentment, no hatred.

 

You know he doesn’t blame you; it had been his fault as much as it had been yours. But it feels good to meet his gaze and know you can put it behind you.

 

“Don’t get kidnapped.”

 

“Don’t get buried alive.”

 

And that’s that.

 

(Okay so there’s a little bit of resentment).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The very first time is in Coulson’s office and it’s after a long mission. You are there, legs pressed against his wall, back to the floor, fingers in your hair, trying to convince yourself the shot you made was necessary.

 

This isn’t the first person S.H.I.E.L.D. has had you kill for them and it certainly won’t be the last but this time had been different. This time the target had looked right at you, in the eyes and nodded. As if they’d known you had been there for the past twenty hours, as if they were ready to let go.

 

Coulson’s voice in your ear had been the only thing that had gotten you to take the shot.

 

“Barton, might I ask why you’re messing up my walls with your boots?” The first words he’s said to you since you escaped the medical bay and drifted into his office. He’s still going over paperwork, most likely the mission report and you really shouldn’t be in the room for that. You stay anyways.

 

“It’s supposed to get easier right?” The question is asked softly, against your will and you thin your lips as soon as the words leave your lips.

 

Coulson does stop now, head snapping upwards at your words. His face, what you can see of it from your position is soft, kind, almost pitying. “No Barton. It’s not. It’s supposed to be hard to take another man’s life.”

 

You nod, swallow against the forces in your throat working against you and start to keep time by the number of blinks he takes. “Then I guess it’s good that I feel sick to my stomach right now.”

 

He’s standing and taking a seat by your head before you can blink, the smoothness of his suit rubbing against your cheek. “Yes Barton.”

You pause and look away for a moment, memories of Barney and carnage and what you had had to do to survive. You look over again and push back the desire. “I need you to promise me something.”

 

He shrugs off his jacket and you don’t watch his muscles. “Within reason.”

 

This brings a smile forth and you nod in agreement. “I need you to make sure that I never get that numb. That I never stop feeling like this after a hit.” _I need you to keep me human._

Coulson’s hand comes down, slowly, to brush against yours. “I’ll put you down myself if you ever get that far.”

 

“I couldn’t ask for anyone better sir.” The words are rough leaving your mouth and you realize you’ve stopped breathing. His pale eyes are piercing and close and you shouldn’t be here. This is the stupidest place for you to be right now but you can’t move away.

 

You turn over and sit up slowly, keeping your eyes on your handler the whole time. You haven’t leaned in half way before he’s meeting you there, hand cupping your cheek and _oh_.

 

The second his lips touch yours he goes from Coulson to Phil.

 

(That night, you lie in your bed and try to forget the feeling of Phil’s fingers pressed against your ribs. Try to forget the shine of regret as he left the room right afterwards).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You manage to avoid Thor for a good month. The way the tower’s built it’s a pretty easy thing to do. Rare are the days you spend at HQ, no one wants you on the Helicarrier and everyone you care about knows where to find you if they look hard enough. (The look of disappointment Darcy had sent you when she’d spotted you in the gym’s ventilation system stays with you).

 

You’re good for a month and you don’t have to meet his guilty gaze or listen to him try and apologize for Loki, don’t have to resist the urge to punch him for something that wasn’t even his fault, for something he had to witness.

 

Thor finds you, of course, as you knew he would. He comes to see you while you’re in the range, sweat lining your back and fingers on the edge of bleeding and you’re 50% sure Nat or Darcy sent him down to drawn you back out to the surface world. You ignore him and continue firing.

 

The demigod stands and watches from the sides, arms crossed over his chest and expression long and hard.

 

The next hour passes by carelessly and you can feel the blood running down the bow and you can feel your arm swelling from where your arm guard should be and this is going to go on forever if you don’t make the first move, you just know.

 

The second you swing around to face him, weapon down and face closed in Thor is no longer looking at you, but surveying the room at large, eyes open and soft.

 

“Stark has done well in his design.” His voice rumbles and you look over to where the blond is examining the boxing ring.

 

“Yeah, he’s good at that.” You try not to let your voice show your annoyance or your anger. You focus on running a slightly dirty cloth over your bow, ignoring the blood still escaping your fingers. The air between you and him is thick, tense with regret and a number of other unsaid things.

 

“Look, Thor, don’t – ”

 

He holds up a hand, cuts you off before you can even properly begin. “No, I do need to apologize. To ask for forgiveness. It might not be in my right to demand it from you but I must try regardless.”

 

You follow him as he sits down on one of the benches, making sure to keep a few feet in between you and him.

 

“Loki is – ” He must catch your flinch because he thins his lips and goes another route. “I was an arrogant, angry boy growing up. I – I was quite bloodthirsty, thrived in battle and I held little care for those who wanted otherwise. I was nowhere near ready to be king, to rule over anyone let alone a whole kingdom.”

 

You let him stop, eye him carefully and this is a man who is tired right down to his bones. It makes you ache for him.

 

“Loki is misguided and confused and hurt and I could have easily ended up like him. This is not to excuse what he has done, what he is standing trial for and I can never even begin to make amends for taking away your – ”

 

You hold up a hand this time, throat tight and back tingling and for a second you can almost feel Phil’s eyes on you, heavy and true.

 

“Don’t. It wasn’t your fault. Your brother, what he did – ” _He took away my reason for living, for breathing._ “That’s not on you.”

 

You can tell Thor doesn’t agree, his hands tightly wound into fists and his back straight and rigid.

 

“For this team to work, for us to mean something, you have to stop thinking it’s your fault. Or it’ll kill you.” _Like it’s killing me._

 

Thor nods but doesn’t respond further and the two of you continue to sit in silence.

 

“Would you tell me about him?” When he finally speaks this is what he asks of you, voice soft and tentative.

 

You swallow back a lump, try not to notice the ghost by the doorway and proceed to do as the demigod asks.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The second you know Phil is going to be okay, you excuse yourself from Jasper and Maria, find an empty room to fall into and call Taylor as fast as you can.

 

Your back is pressed against the door, knees drawn up and you’re trembling. You can feel yourself start to shake violently as you press the phone against your ear. As you try to take in deep breaths and relax because _he’s okay, he’s going to live._

 

It’s only after Taylor picks up, half asleep and disorientated that you remember that it’s four in the morning.

 

“Clint? That you? What the hell?”

 

At the sound of her voice all you can do is offer a shaky sob, immediately smacking your lips shut afterwards.

 

“Clint? Where are you? Are you okay? I thought you were in Tunisia?” Her voice is sharper now, crisp and alert and you close your eyes at the worry there.

 

“He’s going to be okay.” You whisper this, once you can, the words leaving your throat stiffly and it takes you a moment to realize there are tears behind your eyelids, down the side of your face.

 

“Phil? Did the mission fail?” You can hear her moving around, probably getting out of bed and you feel such love for this woman at the moment that it almost overwhelms you.

 

You wipe your free hand over your face, take a deep breath and try to pull yourself together. Try to remember how to hide inside of yourself. “Our contact fucked up Tay. He fucked up and Phil’s broken most of his bones and the doctors won’t let me see him and there was so much blood, so much and I – ” _I almost drowned in it that’s how much blood there was._

 

“Clint, listen to me sweetie, okay?” You find yourself nodding along to her words, trembling subsiding just slightly. “I need you to go to the doctor okay? I need you to find him and give him override code 000340026805 and then I need you to go in and make sure Phil is okay with your own eyes. Can you do that for me?” There’s more movement, a few things falling over and then silence.

 

You open your eyes up again and nod into the darkness. “Yeah, yeah, okay, I can do that.”

 

“Good, now I want you to hang up and call his sister? Julie right?”

 

You clear your throat and steady your hand, clenching and unclenching tight fists. “Jules.”

 

“I need you to call Jules for me and let her know what’s going on.”

 

You open your mouth to protest, to say, _I don’t even know her, not really, barely_ and _how am I supposed to tell Pam about this_ and _I could have lost him today_ and _dear god we haven’t had enough time._

You swallow all of this back and, “Okay.”

 

She takes a deep breath over the line and then, in a small, calm voice: “I’ll be there in thirty minutes, wait for me in his room.”

 

You mean to thank her, to tell her how amazing she is and how you think she’s part magic but instead what comes out is: “I fucking love you woman.”

 

“You better.” She hangs up as you pick up the faint sound of moving keys.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You feel the weight in your bed dip and you know it’s Nat before you even open your eyes. She’s the only one besides Darcy who you’ve given access to your room but the only one out of the two who would care to try at this hour.

 

“You don’t get to be mad at me for this Clint.” Her body is small and warm against your back, comforting, but her words are what have you turning over.

 

You make sure your anger is evident on your face before addressing her. “Like hell I don’t Tasha. You – what you did, what you gave them? You handed over your _soul_.” You spit this at her, voice low and dangerous. You hadn’t even thought this much rage was possible in you anymore, had thought that had been sucked away with both funerals.

 

Nat presses her lips together before reaching for you, hand landing lightly on your cheek. “Vozlyublennoy,” She whispers, eyes bright and wet. “What soul? You’re my soul remember?”

 

You close your eyes and lean into her touch, your own eyes prickling. “You should have told me.”

 

“And what would that have done? Where would that have gotten us? You dead and me six feet under right along with you for killing the Council. This was the only way.” There’s conviction in her voice and you _want_ to believe her.

 

You open your eyes again, the wetness subsiding. “They know now Nat. They know and they’ll use it against you. Your ledger belongs to them now.” _You belong to them now._

Her expression shifts, hardening into stone before your very eyes. “Now listen here tupitsa, I don’t belong to anyone but myself. That’s the way it is and _I_ decided to do this, for you. Because I love you and I need you. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“Oh Nat.” You cradle her head in your hands, pulling her to your chest. “That’s more than enough you know that.”

 

You’re not sure how to explain that you _can’t_ forgive her, will never be able to forgive you because this is a whole new level of love and trust you hadn’t even known existed. She sold herself for you and you don’t know what to do with that.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The next time you wake up, Phil’s gone and Nat has taken his place.

 

“I trust you more than anyone, do you know that?” Her words are rough and slow and as you lazily blink away the morphine still clouding your brain, you realize there are faint tear streaks on her face.

 

You reach for her, helplessly, fingers curling into themselves.

 

She finishes the distance, palm warm against your cool one. She squeezes your fingers once and leans back into her seat.

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“It’s why I followed you into that damn place; you said you’d cleared it out the day before and I trusted that you had and that it was safe and I didn’t even think twice about – ” You watch her neck constrict, muscles pulled tight and tug on her hand for her to continue. “That shot was meant for me. I swear, the second you went down I think my heart stopped. I couldn’t… Clint I couldn’t breathe for a moment.”

 

You thin your dry lips and tug harder on her hand, drawing her away from her chair. She follows your lead and crawls into the bed with you, body shrinking to align with yours. You throw your right arm around her, letting it curl around her back. Her face is pressed against your collarbone and her breath is hot, coming out in short gasps.

 

“It scares me how much I love you sometimes.” Natasha whispers this on your skin, lips brushing your sweaty flesh.

 

A small smile falls on your lips and you lean into her. Instead of pulling away you reply, “Like you could ever resist me.”

 

A breathless sob escapes her mouth and she shudders against you. “You coded twice and Phil punched one of the surgeons. Phillis I think. And Taylor’s out there, cursing up a storm and I think she’s bugged most of this wing.”

 

Your chest tightens for a moment, listening to her and you press your cheek on the top of her head. You love your makeshift family to fucking bits. “You guys are the absolute best.”

 

She pinches you, lightly and on your arm and proceeds to fist her hands into your hospital gown. You let her and fall asleep with her warmth covering you.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Steve finds you in the range around four in the morning and the way he watches you from the doorway makes you want to throw up.

 

This isn’t the first time he’s found you like this and it sure as hell won’t be the last but his eyes on your back bring back too many memories of too much love and you find yourself almost choking around it.

 

You turn to face him, sweaty and tired and you can’t handle him and his grief right now. Not while you’re just barely floating in yours.

 

But his face isn’t the withdrawn haunted face you’ve gotten used to in private. The super soldier looks calm now, calculating, pleased almost. His arms are crossed over his chest, loose in their hold and his eyes are soft, warm.

 

You look away and pack up your equipment.

 

Your shoulder brushes against his on your way out and this makes you pick up your pace.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

During your first sparring session with Natasha, she wipes the floor with you.

 

Wraps herself around your body and slams you into the matt, into yourself a couple of times and she does all of this with no sweat gathered, no blood spilled on her part. The Black Widow throws you around for hours, spills _your_ sweat and blood and you keep getting up.

 

“More.” You heave, arms liquid and head pulsating. She hasn’t gone for your eyes or hands yet and for that you’re eternally grateful.

 

She smirks and beckons you over.

 

You go and ignore Phil’s familiar shadow by the doorway.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The next time you’re called to assemble there is an army of robot soldiers attacking downtown Manhattan and all you can hear in your ear is Phil.

 

You’re on the ground, taking out target after target, watching Nat’s back and Steve’s back and there are bruises and cuts lining your back and left leg and all you can make out is _his_ soft, loving, calm voice calling you back home.

 

When it’s over and clean up has started and the camera crews have shown up you walk up to Natasha as calmly as you can and grip her hand tight. The smile that had been on her face slips away instantly and she’s pulling you close. “What do you need?”

 

“I need to get back to HQ.”

 

She studies you, eyes bright but doesn’t ask for an explanation. She nods and gestures towards where Stark is trying to both keep his side wound from bleeding too much and the reporters at bay. You’re sure he’s two seconds from grabbing Steve’s shield and smacking someone in the mouth.

 

You go to him and tap twice on his shoulder. One look at your face is all he needs before he’s turning his back to the cameras, gripping your waist and taking off.

 

You make it to Fury’s office in less than an hour and Stark waits outside for you, face hard and insistent.

 

Fury looks you over once and then nods, handing you a piece of paper he takes out from inside his first drawer. You wonder how long he’s been waiting for you to crack. “Her name’s Alice Gleece. She’s nice, try not to fuck this one.”

 

You take it wordlessly.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The very first time you think you have a chance with Coulson you’re both in the range at half past three a.m. and his gaze is burning a hole into your ribcage.

 

He’s keeping his distance, as he always does when he’s watching you and you’ve already gone through an entire quiver. Your fingers are aching and sore, your shoulders are tight and you don’t think you’ve ever felt such weight under his gaze.

 

The last time you had been in his presence the doctor had been handing you hearing aids, face pitying and drawn in. He’d walked you back to B block without a single word, back straight and hard.

 

Now however he’s slumped against the doorway, suit jacket nowhere in sight, sleeves rolled up.

 

You meet his gaze wearily, setting down your bow by your empty quiver. “Anything I can help you with sir?”

 

Coulson doesn’t respond for some time, eyes calculating as they roam over your person. You fight off the urge to squirm and stay put, allowing him this.

 

When he does respond it’s with a quiet tone. “No Agent, just wanted to make sure you were adjusting well.”

 

You grin and tap the flesh near your left ear. “Yeah I’m alright. Took a bit of getting used to during the first few days but besides that I’m good. Almost hearing like I was before.”

 

This is a lie. The hearing aids suck and make your ears ache and bleed sometimes and there’s only sound coming through 60 percent of the time and you really wouldn’t mind just not using them. Taylor’s been helping you learn ASL and your lip reading is good enough that no one should really notice if you’re not wearing them.

 

You can tell the second Coulson knows it’s a lie because his eyes go hard and he’s no longer slumped. He approaches you slowly, as if giving you time to escape but you don’t take it. He stops before you, hands reaching for your face.

 

He stops halfway and you wait, breath caught in your teeth. He continues slowly once he notices your lack of motion. His fingers feel warm against your skin and he’s gentle as he tilts your head to the side to get a look.

 

You keep your eyes on his face, taking in his eyelashes, his light stubble, the small hairs on the back of his neck. His eyes, while not directed at your face still feel haunting, piercing and you’re not even sure that shade of blue should exist.

 

He moves back eventually, hand falling away. His lips are tight, thin lines and he nods once at you before turning and heading back out.

 

You frown, cup your now warm ear and call after him, “Sir?”

 

“Clean your ears Barton. There’s blood in them.” He calls just before passing the doorway, steps quick and light.

 

You turn back to your target and pretend there hadn’t been a tremor in his voice.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“Want to tell me what that was all about?”

 

Stark’s voice is soft, quiet against the thunderstorm going on outside and you frown as you make your way over to the refrigerator.

 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about Stark.” You take out the milk and sniff it before putting it back because yeah, _no_.

 

“You said his name. During the battle, near the end.” His tone is too kind, too understanding for you to handle.

 

“I have been known to say many names during moments of passion Stark, going to have to narrow that down.” The sarcasm feels heavy on your tongue, not nearly as satisfying as it had once been.

 

There’s silence from his end and when you turn to face him the man’s eyes are focused on the windows, face drawn. “How long were you guys together?”

 

“Thirteen years.”

 

Stark’s face drops down to his hands, fingers rubbing together hastily. “So there’s no cellist?”

 

You snort, leaning back against the counter. “Come on Stark, I don’t look musically gifted?”

 

“…so cover story then?”

 

“Not really, pretty much everyone knew about us. Phil just liked messing with people that’s all. Little shit head.” You smile fondly, for a second remembering how proud Phil had been of himself. He had smiled so brightly when you’d laughed.

 

“Do you miss him?”

 

You glare at the man at this, expression sharp and deadly. Just because you don’t start to cry every time you remember doesn’t mean it’ll ever stop hurting. Doesn’t mean you chest will ever get lighter.

 

He nods and looks away again. He’s quiet for some time before focusing back on you and this time his eyes are wide, a hint of wildness to them that makes you uncomfortable.

 

“You ever heard of Life Model Decoys?”

 

You shoot up, hands curling into fists. “Stark so help me – ”

 

“Relax Barton I haven’t done anything but…would you consider it? If I could bring him back?”

 

Bile starts to rise from the back of your throat and your eyes prickle against your control, your vision suddenly swimming. The air in the room is thinning and you can’t seem to stop your legs from trembling. “It wouldn’t _be_ him Stark. There’s a reason those were decommissioned.”

 

He doesn’t seem to hear you though and his eyes are brighter now, hands moving quickly in the air. “But I could do it. I could give him to you. It’d be just like – ”

 

The sound of shattering glass snaps him out of his ramble and it’s then that you realize your hands are bleeding, that you had slammed your fists down on a glass of water.

 

 _I’m not letting Phil become the reason you go dark side_. You don’t say. _You’re not going to do this to him_. You don’t say.

 

“Stop it.” You do say. The words feel and sound empty and you vaguely note that your cheeks are wet, your nose running. “Just stop. Phil’s dead. Get the hell over it or get out of my face.”

 

Stark’s face shuts down, all brightness gone from it and before you know it he’s in your face, eyes tainted with something you refuse to believe are tears. “Look I get it. He was the love of your life, and I’m sorry. I know you’re grieving but that doesn’t mean we’re not too. He was yours but he was ours too and this could bring him back.”

 

And he sounds so sure. Sounds so convinced he’s right and that he could manage it. And for a moment you stop and think about it, think about Phil being back in your arms, warm and alive and smiling. About his wrinkles and the callouses on his hands and – _no._

“No. Leave it alone Stark.” _Leave it alone or I’ll rip your throat out_. The threat is silent but there.

 

He walks away just as the storm gives out.

 

\--

 

You lie in bed that night and _not an option._

 

Not. An. Option.

 

Those had been Fury’s last words to Phil. That he wasn’t allowed to die.

 

You roll over in bed, grab the right side pillow and bite down on it.

 

(No. He wouldn’t).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be my good sir?”

 

“Hmm… Italy.”

 

Darcy’s head shoots up, glasses askew on her face. She nudges your ankle with her toe and pouts. “I demand you take me there next time you go.”

 

You snort and nudge her back, trying and failing to detangle your legs from hers. Your poor girl has had one to many drinks since Dr. Foster dismissed you both a few hours ago (apparently SCIENCE! can’t be done if you and Darcy keep trying to shove each other out of your respective seats). You consider pulling her away from the ledge but then think better of it; she’d just shove you and crawl back.

 

“It wasn’t that awesome the first time around. I was on an op that lasted nine months. What I got for my troubles was a nasty sun burn, three new scars and a pretty extensive knowledge of Italian.”

 

She shrugs and nudges you again, this time her elbow to your collarbone. You huff and shove at her lightly, careful not to jolt her drunken body too much. Last thing you need is vomit and tears all over your person.

 

“Fine, you get dibs next time I go. As long as you explain to my dear husband why you’re taking his place.” You don’t mean for the words to come out as bitterly as they do and you’ve forgotten that Darcy, no matter how wasted she gets, will always be able to read into you.

 

She’s quiet for a moment, toeing the gravel beneath her and she looks so young then. So small and timid and you want to wrap her up in your arms and protect her. Oh god Taylor would get a kick out of this.

 

“You guys doing okay?” She asks finally. Her tone is too small for you to be okay with so you shove lightly at her again, hoping she takes the hint to lie back down. She does and when she’s shoulder to shoulder with you again you pull her in, pressing her warmth to yours.

 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. We’ve had worse fights it’s just…I forgot our anniversary this year. He acted like it wasn’t a big deal but I know it bothered him. Hell I would have bitched if it had been him. And then there was some yelling. A lot.” You don’t look at her as you confess this, instead focusing on the bright dead stars above you.

 

She hums lightly and tilts her head onto your collarbone. “Did it just slip your mind or was it something else?”

 

“…Something else. I don’t know, maybe. I just got distracted all.”

 

“Who was it?” Darcy asks, voice muffled as she shivers against you. The New Mexico nights are getting colder and not being very forgiving to anyone.

 

“My brother Barney. He died last week. Anniversary was two days ago.”

 

She curls into you, throws her legs and arms over your body and clings tightly. She’s toeing the line between comfort and suffocation. You let her.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

A huff escapes you before you can stop it. “Yeah kid me too.”

 

“Did he say something about it? Trigger a nerve?”

 

“Nah, he doesn’t know. He just mentioned that I was closing off again and I mentioned something unsavory about him and then it just escalated. Believe it or not Darce I was not always this open and cuddly.” You pause and she lets you, her breath uneven against you. “We’ve had to work through a lot of crap to get to where we are now. Most of that crap from my end and I don’t blame him for getting angry. I fucked up.”

 

She shoots up again and you don’t stop her because this time instead of indignant she’s angry. “You don’t ever have to apologize for how you choose to grieve. Sure it sucks that you forgot your anniversary but you guys are going to be together until you’re old and wrinkly, one year doesn’t matter.”

 

There’s a hard lump in your throat and you look away from her, focus on her hands. Which are bunched up into fists. You look back up at her and sigh at the wetness in her eyes.

 

“Hey, don’t go doing that. There’s no need for that. How’s he supposed to know if I won’t tell him? That’s on me, not him.”

 

She nods in acceptance and there’s a story here, to her reaction but you don’t ask. You simply tug on her arm and cushion her fall as she throws herself back down on your chest.

 

“Funeral?”

 

“No, he was in prison and apparently he’d been sick for a while. Made it known how he wanted his body… disposed of. I only got a call after.” You cover your face with your free hand and bite down on your lower lip. You haven’t felt this much weight on your chest since the alleyway in ’96.

 

“Hey.” Her soft hands tug on yours and she’s gazing at you quietly, sadly. “Don’t hide from me.”

 

“Damn it kid, I’m pretty sure I love you.” The words escape you and you don't regret them.

 

Darcy’s response is sparkling, her smile wide and light. “I know.”

 

You snort and look back up at the dark sky. “Nerd.”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Alice Gleece is a fifty year-old woman with blonde hair streaked with white, tattoos peaking out of her sleeves and her collar. Few wrinkles mark her face and she sits straight in her seat, not slumped forward like most people you know.

 

Her office isn’t in G block like the others but off in D, three offices down from Fury and it’s all oak made furniture, no glass or mahogany and you’re glad someone’s been paying attention. There are no awards however, just rows and rows of books and pictures.

 

You stand by the doorway and eye her as she sits at her desk, making no move to invite you in or acknowledge you.

 

“Well Agent are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in?”

You jump at her voice, it being deeper and more southern than you had expected. You make your way inside and sit on the loveseat available. It crunches under your weight and you bite down on your lip at the sound.

 

She finally looks up a minute later, eyes hard and calculating. “How are we doing this Agent?”

 

“Um, I’m sorry?”

 

She smiles and stands, walks over to the open seat across from you. “You’ve gotten yourself quite the reputation in my department. Rumors are you destroyed the career of your first therapist and screwed your second one out of his job. So, how are we doing this Agent? Are you going to be trouble for me? Am I going to have to reassign you?”

 

You blink, numb and you’d never even asked Taylor if she had patients besides you, had never even seen anyone else enter her office besides yourself and Fury. You'd joked about how terrible of a therapist she was and sure she hadn’t been that great at drawing a line between professionalism and personal matters but…it makes sense that you ruined her for all other patients.

 

And Lorne, you’re not going anywhere near _that_ mess.

 

“I heard my dead husband talking last time I was in the field.” Is all you can offer up.

 

That seems to be all she needs as she takes a seat and nods for you to continue.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The cool air whips along the nape of your neck, hair messy and on end.

 

The bow in your hands helps to drown out the White Noise some but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter because your hands are no longer your own.

 

The arrow is released and inside you curl into a ball.

 

The Helicarrier begins to fall.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Fury lied. Phil’s office is still as untouched as the last time you’d been in it. Same goes for Taylor’s.

 

You and Steve pack up Phil’s office first, the man having offered when he had realized what you were about to do. You make him lift all the heavy things, you yourself focusing on the pictures and documents, taking care not to disturb the dust that had gathered.

 

Each moved piece leaves your hands a bit more numb and make your head pound and it takes you two hours to get everything out.

 

Taylor’s office is slightly bigger and you leave the awards for last. Together you both move the couch out and her desk and the file cabinets. Steve wordlessly takes down pictures with you, doesn’t ask for the story behind any of the ones that include you and when it’s time to take down the awards, he turns his back as you try to rub the tears away.

 

“Thanks for this Rogers.” You clasp his shoulder lightly once everything’s in the truck and people have stopped staring.

 

Steve smiles back and shrugs, “It was the least I could do.”

 

You both climb into the front and you frown over at him. “You been back to Brooklyn yet?”

 

The super soldier freezes, expression getting that far away look again. “No, I’ve been putting if off.”

 

You nibble down on your bottom lip and nod. “Well let me know when you do. I’ll go with you.”

 

The man’s answering grin is bright, just a touch of sadness bleeding through. “Thanks Clint.”

 

Well fuck.

 

\--

 

(You call Darcy and make her stay with you that entire night. The unopened vodka bottle feels light in your hands).

 

\--

 

You don’t mean to barge into Alice’s office but you do and the first words out of your mouth probably shouldn’t be: “I want to fuck our team leader”. But they are.

 

Alice’s head shoots up from where she’s doing paperwork and she opens her mouth once, twice before sighing and gesturing you inside.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The wedding is short, sweet and there are all of five people there besides you and Phil.

 

It’s on the rooftop of your building, at noon and Marcus marries you to the love of your life with a warm smile and a soft voice.

 

Nat is behind you, the best best man you could have asked for and Taylor is besides her, grinning far too widely for your liking. They’re both dressed in a warm, pale red that matches your tie and are beaming at you.

 

Behind Phil are Maria and Jasper, dressed to match him and their faces are warm and proud and you are so glad to have their blessings.

 

Phil before you is smiling softly, his hands tracing yours over and over again in his and he keeps rubbing down on your pulse points. As if he needs to make sure you’re real and in front of him and haven’t tried to run away yet. You squeeze his hands back and press back down on his pulse.

 

It’s a beautiful ceremony and you’re sure Natasha is getting plenty of pictures if the sound of shutters behind you is any indication but still, you’re pretty sure Phil’s mother is going to murder both you and him when she finds out there were two weddings.

 

The formal one will be in exactly two weeks and three days in Chicago with most of Phil’s family and a small portion of S.H.I.E.L.D. attending. This one, now, surrounded by the people who mean the most in the world to you, is for you and him.

 

When Marcus pronounces you and Phil husband and husband, you run your fingertips over his face gently before kissing him. You try and pretend there aren’t tears sliding down your cheeks.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

It’s Bruce that finds you on the rooftop of the tower, feet dangling over the edge carelessly.

 

“Clint?” His voice is soft, slightly tense and it makes you roll your eyes before you push back and turn to face him.

 

“Better?” You snarl. That wasn’t fair to him but you can’t help it. Don’t want to help it. “Relax doc I passed suicidal months ago.”

 

The older man doesn’t comment on this but he doesn’t get any closer either and you know this can’t be good for his blood pressure, for the other guy.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

You cover your face with your hands so you don’t have to jump and how are you supposed to explain to him that the sight of Steve both makes you want to rip your hair out and fuck him at the same time? How are you supposed to explain that this fact makes you want to slice open your arms because your husband hasn’t even been dead a full year and you’re already moving on? How are you supposed to explain that you don’t want to move on, ever?

 

“Nah, doc. I’m good. Just needed some fresh air.”

 

He doesn’t try to make you stay as you push past him.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You’re there the first time Phil – Phil, _not_ Coulson and this distinction is important – officially meets Natasha. This is after the dinner and after she’s changed her name, gained a new identity, and once her assigned S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist lets her leave her room.

 

It’s in your old quarters and he’s there before both you and Natasha arrive and there’s Mexican food waiting and oh dear lord he’s trying to make a good impression and you’re pretty sure she adores him on sight.

 

You sigh in relief and ignore them both badmouthing you with you clearly still in the room.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You don’t ask Nat because you still can’t really look at her and you don’t ask Steve because you can’t really look at him either.

 

You don’t even have to ask Darcy. She takes one look at you at her doorway, soaked to the bone and with a duffle bag by your feet and, “Give me a minute to pack a bag.”

 

She takes the first driving shift and gets you both seven hours into the trip before you have to switch out.

 

She sits in the passenger seat with her feet on the dashboard, beanie hat on her head and too-long sleeved sweater protecting her person. She doesn’t look at you once and you’re grateful for this, don’t know what you would even say if she did.

 

“How old would he be today?” She asks during hour nine once the sun’s started to peak out of the horizon. She looks at you now, and there she is again; gazing at you with such young, innocent eyes you’re not sure what to do with yourself.

 

“Forty-seven. Jules was planning this whole big thing… the girls had this cake planned out.”

 

She moves in her seat, draws her legs up to her chest and you really should tell her to sit properly but you’re the one who likes to dive off of buildings for fun.

 

“Did you ever tell him? About your brother?”

 

You squint at the windshield and turn on the radio. She turns it back off.

 

“Rude.” You mutter and ignore the light pinch she gives your arm. “No. But he knew. I just don’t think he knew how to tell me that he, well, knew.”

 

She hums at this and starts to nibble on a breadstick you hadn’t realized she’d been hiding.

 

“Not that I don’t love road trips and all but why’s Natasha not here with you? Hasn’t she met the sister already?”

 

“I don’t need Nat here I need you.”

 

Pause. “So you didn’t ask her, got it.”

 

“Darcy – ”

 

She shrugs, rolling her window down. “Hey no it’s cool. I know you and her are all soul-mate-die-for-each-other and whatnot.”

 

You give her your best unimpressed look and tap at her legs. “Sit right.”

 

She scowls and pulls her legs tighter to her chest. “Make me.”

 

You stick your tongue out at her before you can stop it and her hand shoots out, missing it by an inch. She laughs and you find yourself laughing right along with her and yeah, Darcy was the right person to bring along.

 

Especially once you get to Chicago and find Maria and Marcus already there.

 

(All of you spend the weekend trading stories about Phil, crying into cake and trying to ignore the thick air in the room).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“Widow? Widow, do you copy?”

 

Silence. The familiar crackle of static. 

 

“Widow, status?”

 

Silence. 

 

You press your forehead against the ledge in front of you, heart pumping wildly. You take a deep breath and switch over to the open comm line.

 

“Base this is Delta calling in, I have no visual on the situation and a possible casualty.” The word gets forced out of your throat, violent and rough. A pause and you continue, “Radio silence from Widow’s end.”

 

The comm link hums for a moment before coming alive. “Copy Hawkeye. Attempt visual confirmation.”

 

You poke your head up, breath caught between your teeth and then –

 

A shot fires past you, missing your head by a few centimeters. “Fuck.” You turn back around and try to find an exit, anything that’ll get you to Natasha.

 

The only way out however is a jump that’ll leave you with two broken bones, at least.

 

You hesitate, for a moment, before remembering that she’s still out there, your partner, possibly injured and alone and you force yourself to start running.

 

More bullets zoom by you creating a mini dust storm and then you’re flying, out the window and slamming into a rusty fire escape three stories down.

 

You feel it the instant the bones in your feet give out, when they crack and slip. White hot pain shoots up your leg, nearly blinding you for a moment. No matter how many bones you break, have broken for you, each new one always feels like the first.

 

You allow yourself a moment to gasp at the pain, to let your lips quiver and then it’s over and you’re swinging yourself down to the car of the shooter.

 

You land on the hood of the car painlessly, foot screaming in pain and ankles protesting loudly.

 

You roll off before your body can convince you to stay put and make your way out of the alley, recursive bow tight in one hand, your five remaining arrows in the other.

 

Okay, there are about three places Natasha can be and the nearest one is three miles in the opposite direction of any and all backup.

 

You lick the blood from your upper lip, silently curse Romanova and run back for her.

 

(You find her, half delirious, clothes dirty and face bruised. You beat her captor within an inch of his life and leave his body for S.H.I.E.L.D. to pick up.

 

You hold her hand in a steel tight grip as medical examines her, poking and prodding and then hold her hand later at debrief when she can’t meet Fury’s eyes.

 

You lay in bed with her, arms pressed together and listen as she tells you about the Red Room, about how they changed her, made her better, stronger. About all the ways they broke her. She tells you about feeling weak and helpless and how you have to make sure she never feels that again.

 

You pull her into you and start calling her Nat. She lets you.)

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“Why didn’t you go?”

 

Jasper doesn’t acknowledge your presence, continues to fill out the report in front of him quietly and efficiently.

 

You sit on your hands so you neither slam them down on the table nor snatch away the papers.

 

“Barton – ”

 

“Jules asked for you. And then Maria had to explain you were busy with work. _Work_. On his birthday.”

 

“Barton this isn’t the place or the time for this – ”

 

“ _Would you just look at me_?” The shout is ripped from your throat. You hadn’t even realized how angry his silence has been making you. This is the first time the man has spoken back to you in months and _screw_ this shit. It was your husband that got murdered, not his.

 

Jasper looks up now and the cafeteria is silent. Agents either making quiet exits or sitting back to watch.

 

“What do you want me to say?” He asks, pen falling to the table. “That the sight of you makes me want to punch a wall? That I couldn’t be around you on his birthday because if I had been I would have knocked your teeth out?”

 

He pauses, yanking his glasses off of his face and you can’t move, can’t breathe.

 

“You…I told him you’d ruin him. I told him and he still let you. I knew it would end eventually I told him not to… I gave you my blessing because it made him happy but I knew it would go wrong. Took more than a decade but you proved me right Barton. You killed my best friend.”

 

Jasper stands, gathers his papers and exits the room.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Fury could care less that you and Phil are a couple he just wishes “that you two stupid fuckers would at least lock the door to the damn office. I’d like to keep my one good eye pure thank you very much.”

 

The meeting is awkward and long and HR gets involved and forms are filled out and you sit through it only because Phil’s hand is keeping you in place.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

This is all you remember from your bachelor party:

 

Nat, dressed in a gorgeous red gown.

 

Taylor, loud and drunk and walking around with no shoes.

 

She-Phil peeing in the sink when she thought you weren’t looking.

 

Somehow, without one sip of alcohol you manage to black out most of it.

 

Nat chuckles the next morning, head held lightly in her hands. “That’s just how awesome it was.”

 

You snort and grimace at the sound of Taylor vomiting.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You take your first drink in thirty-seven years and end up drunk, plastered on the floor of Steve’s hallway. You moan lightly, try to roll over and stop when this makes your stomach tighten against your control.

 

You’ve had… two? Maybe three bottles by the time Steve finds you.

 

You giggle up at him, hiccupping along with your words. “Rogers man, you are too pretty to be real.”

 

Steve’s lips thin and then gravity is working against you, dragging you up and over his shoulders. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

 

The bounce as he walks makes you lean your head against his back, bottle slipping away from your fingers. The glass shatters on the carpet and all you can think to say is, “ _Aw_ bottle, no.”

 

“Clint.”

 

His voice drags you back and wow, he has a really nice ass. You try to squeeze it but mostly end up cupping air. “Mmmm?”

 

“Why are you drunk?”

 

You sigh and settle for sticking your tongue on his shirt. “Oh, haven’t you heard? I killed my husband. Yep, Jasper said so and everything. And if Jasper said it then it must be true.”

 

“Jasper?” He tightens his hold on you and hey, you recognize these walls. Is he taking you to bed?

 

“Yeah, Sitwell. You know I always figured he liked me. Guess not. Was waiting for the whole thing to fail from the beginning. Asshole.” You lower lip starts to tremble and you press your fists against your eyelids, trying to force the tears back. “Fuck, I think about to stain your shirt with tears, sorry.”

 

And with that you’re put back down on the ground, swaying into his touch. “Rude, I wasn’t actually going to start crying.”

 

Steve sighs and turns you to face Natasha’s door. “Clint you’re crying right now.”

 

You reach up and touch your cheeks and huh, you are. “Well my husband is dead. I get to cry all I want.”

 

The younger man doesn’t reply, just reaches over you and knocks on the door. You take this chance to grab his hand in yours, running your fingers over it.

 

“Your hands look nothing like his. Not enough callouses.”

 

He freezes, drawing his hand away. You follow it. “Clint. Stop.”

 

You frown and lean back against the door. “But you don’t want me to.”

 

Steve doesn’t get the chance to answer because in the next instance the door is opening and Natasha is taking you into her arms, shooing him away.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Maria’s office is the exact opposite of Phil’s.

 

It’s open and neat, papers stacked on papers for what appear to be miles all around the room. There’s no furniture besides her desk, the desk chair and two filing cabinets and the windows are blind less and open at all times. There was one day you’d been inside and outdoors it had been 25 degrees. The windows had been open all the same.

 

You sit down as soon as you enter, careful not to meet her gaze or pull at your stiches too much. The only reason you aren’t still handcuffed to a bed down in medical is because Maria requested you in her office not even ten minutes ago. You’re sure you would have stayed down there for another couple of days out of spite if you hadn’t been pulled out.

 

Said savior is sitting behind her desk, expression blank, hands folded over two manila folders. She doesn’t so much as blink as you find the seat she placed for you and only moves to push the top folder in your direction.

 

“Agent Barton,” Okay, Hill, not Maria, got it. “would you please read the opening statement to what I just handed you?"

 

You swallow thickly and pull the folder towards you, flipping it open slowly. You pause and thin your lips. “Probationary Junior Agent Barton is not only a field liability but is also an incompetent, hot headed rebel without a cause. He has no regard for authority or the guidelines carefully put into place for his own protection. His decisions today in the field were reckless, didn’t follow protocol and nearly ended in the death of two agents. Despite this he still managed to successfully complete the mission and retrieve the package, along with negotiate the release of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent while physically compromised. His quick thinking allowed for a safe departure and the avoidance of a possible war. Recommendation: Specialist Training.”

 

You close the folder and set it down on Hill’s desk, voice dryer than when you’d come in and eyes suddenly wet.

 

She accepts the folder back, hands you back the bottom one.

 

You start to read without her prompting. “Senior Agent Specialist Barton was an incredible asset to Operation Postal, not only did he personally secure the hostages and take out the hostiles he also managed to detonate the charges left in the surrounding area. Barton showed immense leadership skills in the evacuation process and made sure the entire building was clear before going back in to finish the mission. While still disregarding most guidelines and still finding it acceptable to jump off of buildings with no back up plan in sight, Agent Barton was essential to the completion accomplished. Recommendation: Avengers Initiative.”

 

Hill takes back the folder and lets you rearrange yourself in your seat before beginning. “That first statement? From our first mission together, your first mission. Aragon.”

 

You keep your eyes trained on the floor, on your shoes and try not to ask about Phil. It’s been hours since you’ve seen him and the last time his eyes had been on you they’d been filled with betrayal and regret. With disappointment.

 

“Second statement from seven months ago, filed by Coulson. Lebanon.”

 

She sits back in her chair, folders pushed to the side. “Agent Barton… do you care to attempt to explain to me why exactly you thought it’d be a good idea to not only turn off your comm and jump off yet again _another_ tower but to also try to recruit the Black Widow? Let’s all not forget to mention the fact that as soon as you made it before her she back handed you across the warehouse leading to a rather high speed chase that ended with three agents in the water, thousands of dollars in property damage and a few broken bones when you managed to convince her to give in.”

 

You listen as the clock above her head idly keeps time, a few seconds behind the one in Phil’s office. You wrap your arms around your waist and don’t think about the look of pure desperation in the Widow’s eyes as she finally allowed you to take her in, or the pure rage in the other agents’ eyes.

 

“I thought she’d make a valuable member of S.H.I.E.L.D., didn’t think we should waste a good opportunity like that.”

 

Hill’s lips thin for a moment before she’s leaning forward and asking, “Are you aware of the previous other five attempts made on her life by this organization? All of which resulted in a number of casualties on our part. Not to mention the fact that this was the closest we’ve ever gotten to Romanova. You went completely off base with this one, it was reckless and stupid and honestly Barton, I’m not sure what we’re going to do with you at this point.”

 

A pause.

 

“We were afraid you’d gone rogue for a few minutes there.” There is fear in her voice now and you look up, Maria staring back at you. She frowns and licks her lips. “Phil was terrified, I could hear it over the comms and everyone in the room knew it.”

 

You don’t speak a word, fingers tightening into your sides.

 

“Help me understand here Clint, what the hell happened?”

 

And just like that you’re away, on the top of a tower in Ukraine and you’re staring down at a girl that can’t be more than twenty-five who has a history, a rap sheet so long it’s ridiculous and gruesome and brutal and there is so much red on her ledger you don’t think anyone can wipe it out.

 

And you’re looking at her and you can’t do it, you can’t make the shot and you can’t look away either and her eyes are piercing, haunting and…

 

And you don’t know how to explain that she has the saddest eyes you have ever seen in your entire life. Sadder than Taylor’s. Sadder than yours.

 

“Is she alive?” This is what leaves your mouth, soft and small.

 

Maria doesn’t answer, seems to understand that she isn’t going to get anywhere with you so Hill comes back, slips into your friend’s skin smoothly. “You’re to report to Director Fury’s office at 0500 hours tomorrow and then before the WSC at 0800 hours for a disciplinary hearing. Your range access has been revoked, you’re gaining a shadow and welcome back to level three Agent Barton.”

 

You hand over your range badge without complaint and exit the room as quietly as possible.

 

You barely make it to the men’s room before you’re leaning over a toilet and throwing up what little lunch you’d had the day before.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“He didn’t mean it.”

 

You frown and don’t look over at Hill. The range is filled with too many agents for her to be here as your friend and you don’t want to talk right now. Your head is pounding and your tongue is heavy and you’ve already thrown up five times today.

 

“Barton – ”

 

“Not now Hill, can’t you see I’m trying to show off to the newbies?”

 

She stills besides you and her expression slips, switching from Hill to Maria and back to Hill again. “You know Jasper loves you Clint. We both do. You were the best part of Phil.”

 

The bow falls to your side and you turn to her. You hate that she can look at you with wet eyes and still have such a straight hard face. It’s a skill you’ve yet to master.

 

“Doesn’t matter much now does it? What with Phil burned down to nothing but ashes.”

 

She doesn’t get angry just takes your free hand in hers and squeezes tightly, ignoring the agents being far too nosy for their own good. “You know we’re always here for you.”

 

As soon as she’s gone you turn back to the junior agents trying to act as nonchalant as possible. You roll your eyes and follow her out.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You are there to see Nat off the day she gets her Stark assignment.

 

You watch as she destroys most of her apartment in a fit of blind rage, more emotion than you’ve seen from her in years and you hate that you can’t do anything.

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. is sending her off to be eye candy, to draw Stark in, to analyze him. She will become Natalie Rushman and will wear all the tight clothes in the world and will laugh and pretend with the best of them and will do exactly as Stark wants because that’s the kind of person Rushman is, will be. They are sending her in like she is nothing more than a piece of decoration and this chills Nat to her bones.

 

“I’ll come for you, if it gets to that. You know you can say the word and I’ll come find you.” You don’t say what you know she’ll hear; that you’ll always find her, that you love Phil so much it physical hurts sometimes but that you’ll _always_ pick Tasha before S.H.I.E.L.D., that you’d give it up for her.

 

She kisses your cheek and smirks. The sadness in her face is enough to catch your breath. “Come on Barton, you know me, I’m a company man.”

 

You grip her hand tightly before letting her go.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Natasha sits down across from you at your kitchen counter and smirks over at you. “That your first drink?”

 

You focus on petting She-Phil the Cat and ignore the redhead. You’ve been more than neglecting the cat lately and your sheets can only take so much shredding.

 

“Fine, don’t talk. I could tell anyway. Though I always figured you’d be able to hold your liquor better not going to lie.”

 

You yank your finger way from She-Phil the Cat’s mouth, returning the feline’s hiss with one of your own. “Freakin’ psycho.”

 

“Clint – ”

 

“I don’t really want to talk about this again.”

 

She rolls her eyes at you and makes her way over to your refrigerator, confiscating your last jello cup. “Too bad. I’m here so get over it.”

 

“Natasha – ”

 

She looks over at you, lips thin and you’ve never even realized it but the last time you had called her by her full name had been years ago. It feels too thick coming out of your mouth.

 

“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

 

“Good because I won’t.”

 

She makes a face at you, eating the jello with her fingers. “I just need you to understand.”

 

You meet her gaze and she’s staring back at you with such honest eyes. A rare thing for the Russian, you know. She’s staring at you with such honest eyes and you know this woman is going to stick by you no matter what. She’s not going to let you run her off. “I can try.”

 

She perks up at this, moving to your side instantly, slipping herself into your arms with ease. “Good. Now, how was Lewis in Chicago? I assume she kept you off of any rooftops.”

 

You sigh and pull her closer. “Banner is such a nark.”

 

She snorts and offers you the jello cup.

 

It’s not much, but it is something.

 

\--

 

She pats your cheeks once, before she goes back to her side of the floor and her all knowing eyes pierce into you.

 

“It’s okay, you know? To take what Steve is offering you, or to show him that he can. Phil would be happy for you.”

 

You smile around the bile in your throat and watch her walk away.

 

\--

 

So you let yourself fall into Steve.

 

You let yourself fall into Steve and it’s in the exact opposite of how you fell into Phil.

 

(And that makes all the difference).

 

Phil was subtle, quiet, took you three years to get there and even then it was soft and loving.

 

Steve is explosive and loud and makes your blood boil. It takes seven months of sharing the same space with him before the both of you end up in his room, sweaty and clinging to each other.

 

His touch is hard where Phil’s was soft and his eyes sparkle in a completely different way and when he kisses you, you know he’s imagining a man seventy years in the past and six feet under.

 

It’s only fair you assume, since his touch brings forth images of soft blue eyes and a soothing voice and a man whose ashes decorate your sister-in-law’s mantle.

 

You fall into Steve and he falls into you (and it’s a mistake).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Agent Coulson comes to find you afterwards, when you’re in medical with ten doctors hovering over you, all trying to find the best way to tell you, to break it to you. _Oh yeah, by the way you’ve lost about 80% of your hearing, no big deal_.

 

You’d learned to read lips years ago, and find it vaguely amusing no one’s noticed at this point.

 

He comes to find you amidst this chaos, takes one look at your amused and slightly distressed face and clears the room in a matter of seconds.

 

You lean back into the hospital bed and watch as he quietly paces for a few minutes, the sleekness of his jacket providing a fill in for where the squeak of his shoes should be.

 

He stops pacing eventually and comes to stand in front of you, expression slightly hesitant. “What you and Dr. Martin did was not only reckless and stupid, but it also could have cost us S.H.I.E.L.D.”

 

The words are faint and far away and you don’t call him out on his lie.

 

You shrug in response and fiddle with the button the nurse had pushed into your hands, a sad smile on her face.

 

You can feel his eyes on you, tracking your moves and you haven’t even been in this agency for a full two years and already it’s draining the life out of you. You’re not going to apologize for trying to protect him and his kind face.

 

Agent Coulson seems to sense this because he doesn’t say anything else simply goes to sit by your side and waits with you until the doctors come back in to talk about hearing aids.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Alice stops her note taking, gives you a once over and you smirk at this, lean back into the seat.

 

“I know, you can hardly tell I spent all last night getting fucked.”

 

She doesn’t as much as blush at your statement, keeping her eyes on yours calmly. “How wise do you think it is to start a relationship with your team leader?”

 

“Not a relationship.” You reply shrugging because that’s all you can really give her. It’s all you really know.

 

She blinks at you once, twice, before sighing and scribbling down something on the corner of the page. “Let me know when it ends.”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Phil asks you, after, once Fury and HR are gone, back in your apartment with his naked body draped over yours.

 

Leans into your flesh, presses his face against yours.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

The words are spoken softly and hesitantly, and you know exactly what he means.

 

_Are you sure you’re ready for all of S.H.I.E.L.D. to know you’re screwing your handler? Are you sure you’re ready for the gossip, for the backlash? Are you sure you want to risk all our enemies finding out? Are you sure you want to risk the torture and pain that this could bring? Are you sure you’ll want to stay, with me, long enough for any of this to matter?_

You gaze down at him, his face open and vulnerable and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more beautiful. You can’t imagine not wanting to run your fingers over his face every time you see him in HQ, not wanting to cover his lips with yours.

 

“Duh.”

 

He presses a kiss against your rib cage.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You call Jules and the first words out of your mouth are, “I fucked Captain America.”

 

You shut your eyes right after, and _Jesus_ this is why you’re not allowed to be by yourself.

 

There’s silence on her end so you continue, your mouth opening up and you can’t stop yourself. “It’s not like with Phil. It’s completely different and I think that’s what makes it okay. I mean, not _okay_ okay but okay enough that I don’t want to scrub my skin off afterwards.”

 

There’s still silence.

 

Your breath gets caught between your teeth and you’re pushing your head into your pillow before letting go. “Please don’t hate me.”

 

That seems to snap her out of whatever trance she was in because she goes into full big sister mode. “Oh Clint sweetie I could never hate you.”

 

The tears are there before you know it, stuffing your mouth with cotton. “He makes it easier to breath.” You don’t tell her about how the rooftop still looks oh so very tempting on certain nights or about how you still can’t sleep on the right side of the bed and it’s sinking in or about how you’ve yet to touch any of Phil’s stuff.

 

“Then that’s all that matters. Whatever it is you need to get out of your system, you do that and you do it knowing Phil loves you.”

 

You press your fist against your mouth, swallow down the sob and, “He died without me.”

 

“Oh Clint…”

 

“I told him I’d be with him until death tore us apart and I wasn’t. I wasn’t there for him and I think he’s haunting me.” Heavy eyes on your back when you spar, a soft voice in your ears during fights and a faint touch on the back of your neck when Steve presses into you.

 

You can hear her struggling for breath on the other line, the tears making it hard for her to get words out. “Now you listen to me Barton. There was no one in this world my brother loved more than you. The way he talked about you alone was enough to make me believe in love and you…you watched his every move as if he himself had hung all the stars. And that kind of love, that passion it doesn’t go away. So maybe he is haunting you and maybe it’s not a bad thing.”

 

You take one shuddering breath and, “Okay.”

 

(You call Taylor’s number after and listen to the dial tone for thirty minutes before hanging up).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You only regret not meeting Bobbi first once, near the beginning.

 

It’s on one of the few ops you both have together and it’s three in the morning and you’re her eyes on top and you’re watching her, watching her con a man out of his life and you’re suddenly feeling guilty and tired.

 

She is beautiful and funny and puts up with your shit but never for any longer than she has to. And you know that if you let her, she could be _amazing_ for you. A revelation.

 

Then you remember the way Coulson had smiled at you early, how his eyes had crinkled at the corners not with age but with joy and the way you had smiled right back, earnest and warm. His smile alone could spark forest fires within you.

 

You go back to surveillance and don’t fantasize about your life with her. You’re already set.

 

(And you guys could have had a simple life together. Not a long one, but a _simple_ , _nice_ one. And that’s still enough to make you ache on the bad days).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You get your first mission since the Battle of New York and it’s in Tunisia of all places.

 

You make sure to make your displeasure known in the form of several broken coffee pots in the rec room closest to Fury’s office.

 

It’s in Tunisia and you’re to infiltrate a drug ring and gain their trust and take down the entire organization. You snort, accept the mission packet from Hill’s hands and ask, “By myself?”

 

“You’ll be fine Barton.” Is all she offers back.

 

“Do I want the reason why you need them taken out right now?”

 

She blinks at you once, twice and then dismisses you.

 

\--

 

The mission ends three weeks in because you’re a masochistic idiot who is losing his mind.

 

Hill herself extracts you and she handcuffs you to your hospital bed.

 

(Your mission report won’t say it but the reason you’d grabbed the woman, the real reason was because she had had Taylor’s eyes).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The day you become level three you gain access to the Helicarrier.

 

You love HQ, you even love the New York base and you love how well you know both of them, how the layouts unfold in your mind in a matter of seconds if need be.

 

The Helicarrier is something new, foreign territory and the minute it lifts off, the cool air whipping around you, you think you’ve died and gone to heaven.

 

(You hide out in the vents for weeks, mapping out the entire structure and Coulson makes you get out when you start to scare the accountants.

 

Totally worth it).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The vows feel clumsy on your tongue and they push against your teeth. There are a _lot_ of people with their eyes on the both of you and if Nat wasn’t behind you you’d probably try to make a run for it.

 

“Um… hey.”

 

Phil’s eyes sparkle, his lips turned upwards. “Hey.”

 

Marcus rolls his eyes at both of you and clears his throat.

 

“So… you’re kind of the love of my life.” You pause, look down at your fingers interlocked with his and then continue. “I’m pretty sure I loved you from the first time I set eyes on you. You were… god you were amazing. I spent three years just watching you, convinced I would never get to hold you like this, be close to you like this.”

 

You chuckle, glance back up and are relieved when his eyes are as wet as yours are. “You are, the best thing to ever happen to me. I’ve had a really sucky life and meeting you…I thank the world everyday for giving me you. I plan to be with you until we get sick of each other – ” Phil chuckles, fingers tightening. “or one of us croaks and…Jesus Phil. I want to be so good to you. I’m glad you’re letting me.”

 

He pulls you in closer, a few more centimeters and it makes all the difference. You get to keep this man, he’s _yours_ now. And this thought calms the nerves away instantly.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Alice is your first visitor. Comes in right after Fury’s done yelling at you and takes a seat by your right side, makes sure the exit is still clear for you to see.

 

You watch her, mind still hazy from drugs and the way she’s looking at you has too much Taylor in it. You look away and down at your hands.

 

“Agent – ”

 

“You look like her.” You pause, rub your fingers together and keep going. “Not really, not physically but… the way you look at me. The way you write notes, how you organize your files. It all screams Taylor to me. I look at you sometimes and I want to scream from how unfair it is.”

 

Alice doesn’t say anything and this makes it worse, makes your mouth and tongue move.

 

“She wasn’t even fifty yet. Jesus she had at least another thirty years left. She was healthy, strong… she was supposed to outlive me. Always joked she’d follow me when she could.” You cover your face with your free hand, try to swallow around the still raw grief in your throat.

 

“I’m aware that Dr. Martin was your friend – ”

 

“My best friend. She… Jesus Christ I gave her eulogy. I cleared out her office and her apartment because her parents are assholes. I had to give her cats away because I couldn’t even look at them let alone take care of them and I…she died thinking I’d gone rogue.”

 

“Agent, what did you see on the mission? According to Hill you were doing fine.”

 

You swallow again and don’t know how to tell her that you’d grabbed the arm of the drug leader’s wife because her eyes had been such a warm color of brown you had almost fainted.

 

“I saw a ghost.”

 

“…well we’re going to try and fix that.”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The cat is judging you, you can tell. She’s eyeing your slumped figure and the carton of strawberry ice cream before your face and the miniature unopened bottles moonshine of littering the countertop.

 

“What?”

 

A meow.

 

“Oh bite me, like you’re any better.” You turn away from the animal’s judgmental eyes, focusing on the contents before you. You’re really not all that sure why you’d even let it into the apartment in the first place.

 

You sigh and shovel more ice cream into your mouth and study the feline a bit. Some company won’t be so bad for a few hours, if only to distract you from the empty space by your side.

 

It’s been only three weeks since you last saw Phil but already the anxiety is seeping into your bones, enough to make you lenient towards the building’s psycho cat. At night you throw your arms and legs over his side – the right, always the right – of the bed and you can’t seem to bring yourself to touch any of his clothes. That paired with the fact that you keep making enough food for two and keep leaving the bathroom light on after you exit out of habit are not good signs.

 

You scoop out more strawberry and mourn over your measly level four access.

 

You are fully prepared to spend all night with the stray cat judging your life decisions when the sound of the front door opening hits your ears,

 

You’re out of your seat and latching yourself onto him before you can help it, mindful of the obvious bandages on his person.

 

A faint chuckle escapes his lips before he’s returning the embrace wholeheartedly. “Missed you too.”

 

You kick the door closed.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Nat is allowed to take you back to the tower a week later, after Fury’s gotten all he can out of you and Hill no longer needs you around.

 

She deposits you onto your bed and after taking one look at your face, goes and retrieves Steve.

 

You watch as he stands by the doorway, hands in his pockets clenched, as if he’s unsure if he’s allowed to touch you.

 

You motion him over and pat the empty space by your feet.

 

“Clint – ”

 

“Don’t need to tell me Cap. I know I fucked up.”

 

The blond man thins his lips and catches your hand in his. “I was going to ask if you’re okay but that seems like a stupid question.”

 

You snort, leaning your head back against the headboard. “Yeah it is.”

 

He stays silent, running his fingers over yours. His thumb catches on your ring and it lingers there. “Isn’t this too recognizable for you to wear?”

You look back, watch as he toys with your wedding ring. “I never really thought about taking it off. I actually think it’s come off maybe five times in seven years. Most missions don’t require me up close so it’s not an issue.”

 

He hums, continues to trace it. “I’ve never actually noticed it before.”

 

You fight the sudden urge to rip your hand out of his. To tell him that it’s only for you to notice.

 

You don’t however because you can the longing in his gaze, knows his mind isn’t here right now but back in time with a snaky dark haired boy.

 

You don’t ask the stupid questions, like _did he love you too?_ Or _would you have married him?_ His face says it all.

 

You pull him closer and ignore the wetness on your shoulder.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Out of all the office’s you’ve stalked in your eleven months at S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Coulson’s is your favorite.

 

It’s closed off, one window, one very uncomfortable looking sofa and a crappy coffee table. His desk is glass, covered in a mess of paperwork and the miniature kitchen he has to the side contains only coffee and cereal. There are no personal items, nothing to single out the office except for the mess of papers everywhere and you love it.

 

You love it because it makes it easy to categorize him in your mind. Agent Coulson is very clearly in the _work_ box in your head, is separate from your personal life.

 

So what if you wouldn’t mind bending him forward and slamming into him? So what if you wouldn’t mind taking hold of his hand and never letting go? Details.

 

So yes, you love Agent Coulson’s office and _this isn’t considered stalking Taylor so whatever_. You’re just casually and quietly observing him from the air vent above his desk. Nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with wanting to get to know your handler.

 

(You pretend to have no idea what he’s talking about when he catches you and crawl away as quickly as you can).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Your first visit to Barney doesn’t end as badly as you had thought it would.

 

His face is long, drawn down by age and guilt but his eyes brighten when they see you, if only for a second.

 

And it’s good talking to him, being around him. Almost enough for you to forget about the years of anger and abandonment issues he caused.

 

You leave there smiling and then go to your car to cry into your husband’s lap.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Darcy drives you to your next session with Alice, waits outside for you, back to the cool wood of the door opposite Alice’s office.

 

You pretend she didn’t eavesdrop as you half whispered your way through the story of how you met Taylor, how she became your best friend, and how you lost her.

 

She looks up at you when you exit, iPod dangling on her fingertips. “Would I have liked her?”

 

You sigh and look away, can’t handle seeing your own grief projected onto her. She’s so young and your sadness is dragging her down with you. And you’re selfish enough to let it.  
  
You help her up, hands clutching her wrists tightly. “You would have loved her.”

 

\--

 

(You take Taylor’s things out of your back closet and put them into storage. It doesn’t help when the nights get too quiet, but it’s something).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The second Taylor leaves to get coffee Fury slips in, footsteps light and quick.

 

You don’t move your eyes from Phil’s resting form, your gaze taking in, yet again, every inch of plaster covering his body.

 

Fury doesn’t comment on your lack of greeting, simply moves around the room and takes Taylor’s vacated seat by Phil’s other side. He leans back into the chair and reaches for your boyfriend’s hand, taking it carefully in his.

 

“Has Phil ever told you how we met?”

 

You don’t fight the sigh and rub your hand over your face. You’re too tired for this shit. “No sir.”

 

A smirk crosses Fury’s face, low and soft and you don’t think you’ve ever seen his face so open.

 

“I was traveling with his unit. I was looking for scouts, needed some competent agents at my back.” He speaks slowly, voice rough and you know Phil is Fury’s best friend, maybe his only friend. You swallow around this.

 

“It was a routine check in and we got blind sided, enemy came in from the top and took out most of the unit before I could so much as move. And then,” a sharp chuckle, “Cheese over here goes and throws me to the ground. Takes out half of the guys in a minute flat. Toughest son of a bitch I had ever met.”

 

You grab Phil’s free hand at this and don’t fight the lump that develops in your throat over how limp said hand is. You hold it tightly in yours.

 

“Still, we got captured. Three weeks captivity. Usual torture and whatnot.” Fury’s words wash over you and you can almost picture it, a twenty-four year old Phil, so young and small and bleeding and…you come back to yourself, jaw tight.

 

“Phil got us out. Blew up the damn place with shit he found in the pockets of the guards. To this day I still have no idea how the bastard did it.”

 

You roll your eyes in his direction, expression hard. You’re already very much away of how much of a hero your boyfriend is, how much he’s done and given for Fury.

 

“Your point?” You ask, adding in a “sir” at his expression.

 

“My point is that Phillip Coulson is one tough bastard and like hell are – ”

 

“One _hundred_ and fifty.”

 

“One hundred and fifty broken bones going to stop him. He’ll pull through Clint.” The mention of your first name has your head snapping back towards him. You honestly hadn’t even known he knew your name.

 

He doesn’t wait for a reply, simply stands and makes his way out.

 

“Oh and Clint?”

 

You turn to face him.

 

“Call me when the nightmares come back.”

 

You grunt and he exits.

 

(You do end up calling him, when Phil wakes up from a nightmare so bad he fractures three of your fingers and puts you into a chokehold before you can get away.

 

Fur – _Marcus_ starts to spend more time at Phil’s apartment with you after that).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Stark tries to apologize. In his own weird, fucked up way.

 

Builds you a new quiver of arrows, presents them with thin lips and a sharp nod.

 

You take pity on him and accept the gift.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“Hold still.” Your voice is rough and tight and you’re not sure you can even see properly with the blind rage that’s circling your blood stream.

 

Taylor complies as best she can, eyes closed against the pain.

 

Her face is a mess of black and blue and red and the rest of her is just as bruised, tender and torn. You’re doing your best to clean her up, to be gentle but you’ve never had patience for your own wounds let alone anyone else’s and Phil’s the wanna be medic, not you.

 

You press down on the split skin of her forearm, temper short and tone clipped. It’s not the worst of her wounds but it’s the easiest for you to clean at the moment and you need the distraction.

 

“You gonna tell me their name?”

 

Her face shifts, lips thinning and eyes tightening and she’s never looked so old before. You’re suddenly feeling your age.

 

“No name to tell.” She whispers, voice just as tight as yours. You suppress a sigh and reach for a gauze pad, rubbing it with alcohol before setting it aside and picking up a needle and thread.

 

Taylor winces at the mere sight of said items and you bit down on your lower lip before beginning.

 

Once the first few stiches are in you try again.

 

“Male, female? Agent, civilian?”

 

She offers you as much of an unimpressed look as she can with you sewing her back up.

 

“Not the first time then.” You state when she doesn’t respond. You know about the scars on her wrists, the bite of her father’s fist but you hadn’t known someone was continuing the abuse, or that she was letting them continue. “I just need a name, I’ll take care of the rest.”

 

When she meets your eyes again, her are watered and tired and you want to hug the sadness out of her. You tell her this as you finish the forearm and place down the gauze.

 

She rolls her eyes, a few tears escaping.

 

You want to get up, now, go find Phil and demand he find whoever did this. Demand that he help you make them pay, make them suffer and cry and bleed. Only Taylor’s bone white grip on your thigh keeps you in place.

 

“You know doc, this is pretty self destructive. Hypocritical even. Aren’t you supposed to know better than this?” The words slip out without you really meaning them, without you inspecting them first and yeah, okay, not the smartest thing to do.

 

But all she does is shrug and then wince from the pain it causes her. “You’ve always said I’m a sucky therapist.”

 

You stop your movements and focus in on your friend, your only friend, your _best_ friend. “Give me a name.”

 

Her head leans to the left and she’s wiping her eyes on her shoulder as best she can and you don’t think you’ve ever seen her so defeated, so tired. She meets your gaze, head tilted, eyes red and, “Agent Candace Lane.”

 

You thin your lips and instead of responding, you push her hair back and get to work on the cut along her right temple.

 

(It takes you three day but you manage to track down Agent Lane. You find her on the Helicarrier and she’s blonde and cute and tall and mostly lean muscle and she could easily pin down Taylor.

 

You make your way over to her and put on your most charming smile.

 

Agent Lane has an accident a few days later and her remains turns up a week after. [Every family deserves a funeral].

 

You don’t feel sick to your stomach.

 

Phil never finds out).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

This is how the next assemble call ends:

 

You on the roof of a half burning building, out of cable arrows and no one in sight to catch you.

 

You glance down to where Stark is quickly being overpowered, over to where the Hulk and Thor are side-by-side trying to deflect and you make the call without hesitation.

 

You jump off the collapsing building with your husband’s name on your lips and you can’t find it yourself to feel regret.

 

\--

\--

\-- 

 

“Hey hunk, strap on your dancing shoes, you’re taking me out tonight.”

 

You snort and continue to slurp up your lukewarm soup. The young assistant before you looks unimpressed with your response and sits down across from you, arms crossed over her chest.

 

“Come on, you’re the one who elected yourself my new bestie, that means I get to drag you places.”

 

You pause, blink and yeah okay, you have to give her that one. Still, you continue your quest to finish your meal before Dr. Foster comes back and demands more SCIENCE! be done.

 

She huffs, drapes herself over your lap and, “ _Clint…_ ” You snort again and flick her nose.

 

“What does this evening exactly entail if I might ask?”

 

She jumps up at this, joy radiating from her and yeah you’re screwed. Just one more woman holding you by the balls. (You resolve right then and there to make sure to never introduce her to either Taylor or Nat. Just…no).

 

“The only bar in this place starts happy hour soon…” She very unsuccessfully waggles her eyebrows.

 

“Are you even legal?”

 

She scowls and swats at your chin. You bite down on her fingers playfully and ignore the eyes digging into your back. You had known the second he arrived.

 

“Come on, be my wingman. Get me laid.”

 

You shove her off of you and scrunch your nose at the imagery. “Yeah, I’m good. But I’m sure my dear husband will be more than happy to accompany you.”

 

Darcy shoots up, eyes fixating on Phil by the doorway. “Agent Coulson, want to make up the whole iPod business?”

 

You drown them out and focus on finishing your now definitely cold soup. By the time you’ve salvaged as much as possible and have moved on to the granola bar sitting in your pocket, Phil’s hands have closed around your shoulders and he’s pulling you up.

 

You groan, let the bar drop down on the desk and follow them out.

 

(The evening ends with both Darcy and Phil spectacularly drunk and you having enough blackmail footage to last decades).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You wake up to Nat’s calm face.

 

The familiar smell of S.H.I.E.L.D. medical hits you and you know right away you’re on the Helicarrier. You twist around, frowning at the cast on your left arm. “Damn it.”

 

“Tell me it wasn’t on purpose.”

 

Your head shoots up from where it’d been examining how to best get rid of the plaster. “Nat – ”

 

“Tell me the truth and I’ll believe you.”

 

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.” And it’s the truth. It had either been jump or be burned alive. And you’re rather fond of the skin you’re in.

 

Her eyes study you, warm and honest and she nods, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll go tell Darcy you’re okay.”

 

She exits then, before you can ask her to stay. Tell her you need someone because Phil is still there, on the tip of your tongue, when Steve enters a few seconds later.

 

Your fearless leader is bloody, uniform torn and dirty and his face tells you all you need to know.

 

“You heard.”

 

His lips thin, white against his already paling skin and you look away.

 

“I thought…I thought maybe this was good for you. That we’re good for you – ”

 

“Damn it Steve,” You interrupt, unable to handle the sadness in his voice. “Don’t do that. You _have_ been good for me.”

 

“But I’m not helping.” And he doesn’t sound angry about this, no bitterness. Only calm truth. “You dove off that building with Coulson’s name and I – I think it’s best if we stop.”

 

Silence.

 

“You need to get better and you can’t do that if I’m here, reminding you of him.”

 

You smirk, cruelly, because of course he picked up on that. He notices everything. And you have been looking at him this whole time and seeing Phil, you just hadn’t realized until right now.

 

“And I can’t keep looking at you and thinking of Bucky.”

 

That one wasn’t exactly a secret. He hadn’t been discreet, the nightmares and sketchbooks giving him away.

 

You only nod, smirk falling away into a smile. “Got to tell you Cap, this is the best break up I’ve ever had.”

 

He smiles, soft and just a bit loving and you know the both of you are going to be okay.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You wake up groggy and tired and you’re reaching for Phil’s hand before your eyes are even fully open, needing the reassurance. The comfort. His warm, familiar hand clasps yours and squeezes gently and this prompts you to fully wake up, fighting back fatigue and pain.

 

“Hey asshole how’s tricks?” Your voice comes out cracked and dry and it hurts to even breathe, let alone talk.

 

He doesn’t seem impressed with your greeting, simply reaches over and grabs you a cup of water, gently helps you take a few sips.

 

“Bad news first?” He asks, free hand coming up to brush your hair back. You lean into the touch, weakly and nod. “Give it to me sir.”

 

A breath. “Three hairline fractures, four broken ribs, a dislocated ankle, three broken fingers and one giant hole in your chest.”

 

You let out a low chuckle, pain rattling in your chest at this and Phil is pressing the morphine button before you can protest. You scowl lightly at him. “Good news?”

 

“Natasha found Boerhn’s men.”

 

You wince in sympathy and bring his hand to your chest, holding it against your bandaged wound. “How long was I out?”

 

Phil leans back into his seat and strokes your hand with his, expression tired and worn. “Ten hours of surgery, another six before that from the blood loss. You coded twice on the table and I – doctor’s say you’ll need to stay for at least another two weeks and from there physical therapy for the next few months. No range or gym access and you’re house bound.”

 

If you were completely lucid, you’re sure you would be complaining at this point but apparently whatever’s in the drip is the good stuff so you don’t fight it and allow your eyes to close, simply nod in agreement.

 

You feel a soft kiss brush your forehead and smile at it, licking your lips. “Injuries aside, you planning on making good on your promise to make an honest man out of me?”

 

Phil’s smile is very clear when he answers. “We’ll talk about that when you wake up.”

 

You feel more warmth entire your veins at his words and you’re out in a matter of seconds.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Alice ends badly, bitterly. Like so many of the good things in your life have.

 

“You don’t need me anymore Barton. You’re not okay, you’re nowhere near okay but… you’re going to get there.”

 

You freeze in your seat, hand halfway to the cup on the table between the both of you.

 

“Did…did I do something? Say something?”

 

Her face is as passive as always as she makes her way back to her desk. “You’ve been fine Agent. Great even. But…this is it. I’ve done all I can at this point.”

 

You shoot up now, hands curling into fists and god _damn_ it. It’s just one more person leaving, someone else being ripped away. Except this time it’s a choice.

 

“Alice – ”

 

“Don’t.” Her command is quiet, calm and you realize then that she’s not attached to you. Not like you are to her. She’ll be able to go on about her business once you leave, busy with hundreds of other patients, with Fury. You’d figured it out weeks ago, it being the only reason she’s so close to his office, so calm in the face of all your crazy. Fury has enough crazy for ten people.

 

“I can’t replace her. Stop trying. Maybe get a dog.”

 

The words are cruel, strike against your chest and you turn away from her. You’re not sure why it hurts so much, it’s not out of character for her but you still find it hard to look back at her, want to concentrate on the carpeted floors.

 

“Director Fury assigned you to me because I don’t get attached, because I can look at the situation with unbiased eyes. I’ve done all I can for you and I’m referring you to someone else. They’ll continue from where I left off, help you continue through the steps of your recovery and – ”

 

“Screw you.” You slam the door on your way out.

 

\--

 

The next day you receive a thick folder, Alice’s neat handwriting on the top note.

 

_For your next therapist. Screw you too._

You shake your head, bite down a harsh laugh and throw your psych folder down the garbage chute.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Dr. Martin gains the right to call you Clint the same day you gain the right to call her Taylor.

 

Sure you and her were both exhausted at the moment and bleeding and quite possibly injured to the point of delusion but it still counts.

 

The day had started out boring and quiet, HQ calm for once. It’s only been a few weeks since you’re first mission and while you can now look Hill in the eyes you still have a faint buzz under your skin at inactivity.

 

You’ve yet to see Agent Coulson today and while you know you can always just pop by his office for a quick visit, you have to resist the temptation. The last time you’d been around him you’d nearly drooled at the sight of him in his new suit. Hill had smirked the whole time.

 

So instead of heading towards D block you go down G and head early for your therapy session. Dr. Martin will appreciate it you’re sure, any reason to try and squeeze more of your “dark and twisty” past out of you.

 

The second you cross the corridor to her room there’s a sharp, ringing blast behind you and before you know it you’re on your back in front of her door, dust is covering you and you can’t hear out of either ear.

 

Your body is immediately aching and you can feel blood on your back through your jacket and you can’t properly feel your arms enough to stand up let alone try and find out what the hell just happened.

 

Arms are grabbing you then, lean arms pulling you up and away and you can’t make out a voice but Dr. Martin’s face is a welcoming sight even if it is dirty and slightly bloody.

 

Her mouth moves and you know she’s trying to speak, trying to get your attention but all you can focus on is the ringing in your head and the lack of noise coming in from both ears. She seems to get the general message because she stops trying to talk and instead grabs a slightly charred notepad with shaking fingers, scrawling down on it with a bent pen.

 

You watch the room as she writes and there is a giant hole where one of her walls used to be. It’s the one with all the awards and you frown at the thought of her having to get all of those replaced. Besides the wall most of her furniture is turned over and charred, dust and ashes on nearly every area. You watch as her files start to burn and smirk a bit, just a bit.

 

She snaps her fingers in your face to grab your attention and you read off the pad. **Attack? Is there procedure for this?**

 

You take a moment to marvel at the fact that apparently no one in the psych department knows any of the emergency evacuation plans and nod before grabbing both the notepad from her and the dying pen.

 

**We need to get to A block. If it’s an attack I need my bow and I need to get you out of here.**

 

She scowls and shakes her head. **Like hell I’m leaving you, you can’t hear anything.**

You match her scowl but don’t bother arguing, she’s small enough that she can crawl through the vents with you and she’s right, you need ears.

 

**Fine, let’s go but stay behind me and tap if you hear anything.**

 

You climb onto her desk slowly, ignore the shards of glass embedded into your shoulder blades and the blood running down your face. You open up the air vent above and reach for her, helping her climb up before swinging yourself in. Your muscles scream and you grit your teeth. Hello physical therapy.

 

You start to make your way south, checking behind you every once and a while to make sure Dr. Martin’s still there. Every time you glance back she’s looking at you with the same terrified eyes but hard face. You’d give anything to be as strong as she is.

 

You make it to C block before she’s tapping at your ankle and you turn and look down at the opening you just crawled through. Beneath you are at least twenty men armed, dressed head to toe in black and there’s Director Fury being held at gun point, arms pinned and no escape in sight.

 

You let your head hang and sigh because across the room there’s Agent Coulson and now you _have_ to go down there. You meet Dr. Martin’s eyes and indicate downwards.

 

She swallows and begins to tap out softly on the wall next to her. You grin at the Morse code; you hadn’t known that was even in your file. It takes a while but eventually you get what she’s trying to tell you.

 

**There is talk about the Stark weapons we have in A.**

You glance back down and eye Agent Coulson who is most definitely working his way out of his binds if his shoulder’s rotation is any indication.

 

You tap out a response as quickly as you can with shaking fingers.

 

**I am going down. You?**

She raises that perfect eyebrow of hers and yeah, okay, she’s pretty awesome.

 

 **On my mark.** You start to lower the vent opening and that’s when Agent Coulson’s eyes shoot up to meet yours. His face is blank and steady but his eyes, his pale eyes are screaming for you to escape and get help. You offer a grin back.

 

Dr. Martin taps on your shoulder and points down towards where Director Fury is being beaten and okay it’s time.

 

You push back the pain coming from your back and drop down on two of the attackers. You feel Dr. Martin drop after you and from there it’s chaotic and only years of being on your feet keep you from ending up with a bullet between your eyes.

 

You’re raising your hands and twisting the guns away from the two you fell on before they can make a move, slamming their heads against the glass floor beneath you until see some blood pouring out of their skulls.

 

You stand in time to watch Dr. Martin make quick work of the goon trying to strangle her, swiping his feet out from under him and delivering a left hook that has the man’s head bouncing and you wincing.

 

You turn away and steel yourself against the attack coming towards you, letting him slam you into the wall behind you. You don’t hear yourself cry out but you know that you do as you feel the shards embed themselves deeper into your skin. You bring your arms down viciously on his neck and your knee comes up to shove his nose upwards. He drops with a twist in his figure and you put in another swift kick to his head to ensure he stays down.

 

A rough pair of hands wrap themselves around your neck and you’re able to see Agent Coulson taking care of the men around Director Fury efficiently and quickly before you’re vision starts to go black and you can’t even fight against it. The body behind you is hard and wide and all your kicks and scrambles aren’t getting you anywhere. You gasp for breath anyways because screw Dr. Martin, you’re not suicidal anymore and you deserve a promotion after this is all done.

 

The pressure gives away when the body behind you falls away and you turn, hands rubbing your throat to watch Dr. Martin all but claw the man’s eyes out. He has at least three feet on her but she gets her nails in somehow, climbing his back, and pulls down hard, all the while bringing her apparently steel toed shoes towards his middle. It takes a while but the man does fall and Dr. Martin grabs the vase on the floor a few inches away and slams it into his face for good measure.

 

She’s heaving and gasping at the end of it and when the body beneath her stirs and tries to shove her off, she reaches down and finishes the job, nails going in deep. The body stills.

 

You fall to your knees in front of her and grin widely, your hands meeting the glass floor. **You are bat shit.**

 

You assume she laughs from the way her head gets thrown back and her mouth widens in happiness. You grin and wipe some blood from your eyes, turning to examine the room at large.

 

Turns out there were two other agents in the room as well and about twenty more goons than you had originally seen, scattered around the floor. Agent Coulson is standing, not a single hair out of place, in front of Director Fury, hands steading him.

 

He meets your gaze, and you smirk with a simple shrug that you’re going to regret later. He looks away after a moment to, by the way the other agents stand to attention, bark out orders.

 

Dr. Martin taps on your hand and you face her again, the ringing in your ears finally ebbing away a bit now that you’re not moving.

 

You hear a faint, distant tapping as she tells you. **Call me Taylor.**

 

**Clint.**

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Natasha’s birthday sneaks up on you. You don’t even realize it’s here until she drags you out of bed and demands you buy her blueberry scones.

 

It’s not the real date of course but it’s the one she chose for herself, new to S.H.I.E.L.D. and to the freedom of options.

 

Somehow Stark catches wind of it – you’re eighty-nine percent sure J.A.R.V.I.S. is spying for him – and by the time you get back from the diner down the street the communal floor is decorated to the point of nausea and holy shit that’s a huge cake.

 

Instead of running like you’d thought she would Natasha lets herself be pulled into gentle hugs and kisses on the cheek, accepts the drink Bruce offers her and only hits Stark on the arm once.

 

You watch her, as she gets passed around and smiles and jokes and you’re glad you decided to move in. Know the only reason Stark probably asked was because she wouldn’t move in without you.

 

This is her home now, became it while you weren't paying attention and you can almost see where Phil would fit in. Where he would be quietly watching the scene from the farthest kitchen stool, expression soft and warm.

 

You smile at the image, at the ghost that still follows you and quietly make your way out.

 

\--

 

“Clint?”

 

You don’t roll you eyes up at the sky at the sound of Thor’s voice. You _don’t_. Because you’re an adult and adults don’t do things like that.

 

“Hey buddy, what do you need?”

 

The blond walks over to you by the edge and sits down, back to the ledge. “I wished to make sure you are well.”

 

You let the eye roll come. “Nat rat me out?”

 

“She is merely concerned.”

 

You nod and yeah okay you know she is but she doesn’t have to be because, “I’m fine.” And you say it like you mean it. And you do. It’s been so long since you’ve been able to say those words and mean them. You lean forward and glance down, New York spread out beneath your feet. “I promise.”

 

He is quiet besides you for a moment and you know that if you look over he will have on that quiet contemplating look he gets far too often in your presence. “If you say it is so… then I believe you.”

 

“Thanks.” You don’t mention how he’s the first person to take your word for it.

 

“And in that case I believe it’ll do us good to have our way with these.”

 

You glance over now and wow, okay, how did you not notice the nice big cooler of beers in his hand. He passes you one, taking another two for himself and the both of you sit in silence for the next few minutes.

 

The liquid feels stale against your throat and yeah, no, not for you. You sip it anyways.

 

“I often find you out here, is your floor not to your liking?”

 

You frown and glance back down because these days you’re only ever there to feed She-Phil and harass Nat. It’s not like it is with Nat for you. “It’s not home.”

 

“Where is your home?”

 

 _Dead and burned down to ashes._ You swallow this reply and let the bottle slip from your fingers. It shatters a moment later and the demigod gives you a disapproving look. “Not here that’s for sure.”

 

“…then maybe it’s time you find it.”

 

You snort, glancing over to see him holding out another bottle, eyes earnest and yeah, maybe. You’ve been trying for months to make this place work and while you like your teammates, could love them at some point…it’s not home. And it probably won’t ever be.

 

You accept the second beer from Thor’s hands and down half of it quickly, throat protesting against the sensation.

 

“Maybe it’s time to move on.” You agree.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Your muscles are aching and your skin is too bruised for you to try and get into the shower and there is no way you’re getting up to answer the door.

 

“Go the hell away. This is my me time.” You shout from your sofa. And that’s when you realize the remote is too far away for you not to have to get up for it and you might as well chase away whoever is trying to bother you not even twelve hours after your last mission.

 

Then the sound of scratching hits your ears and you’re up, wobbling to the door as fast as you can.

 

This is it, you’re going to murder that damn cat and string it up because you are not repainting that damn door again. This isn’t be the first time you’ve heard the stray animal clawing at your door, making a joke out of its paint job but this is _it_ , you are finally going to confront the damn animal. You’d done your best to ignore the damn thing since moving in a few months ago but not anymore.

 

You yank the door open to find Phil standing before you, psycho cat pawing away at his trousers. You raise a singe, unimpressed eyebrow at the picture. You don’t kick the cat away because the last thing you need is your S.O. writing you up for animal abuse. You contemplate it anyways.

 

“Phil, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

 

He doesn’t comment on the usage of his first name and you smirk internally. Yeah, you got the right to call him Phil the day he decided to fuck you into the wall of his office and then walk away like nothing happened.

 

“You skipped out on medical, I needed to make sure you hadn’t bled out.” His tone is smooth and deadpan and you can’t do this now, not when all you want from him is to ask him to stay. _Stay in bed, stay here just… stay._

 

“I can’t do this now, I have a cat to chase off.” You glance down at said feline and scowl at it. “You heard me, shoo, go destroy Mrs. Anjel’s door.” The cat ignores you and snuggles up closer to Phil. You turn to scowl at him. “Great, now it’ll never leave.”

Phil steps around the cat, slides by you and enters your apartment. You look up at the ceiling for some guidance, find none and close the door before the cat can get any funny ideas. You hear it resume the destruction of your door and sigh down to the floor.

 

You turn back to Phil and walk him over to the kitchen, careful to place the counter between you and him.

 

“I’m fine, as you can see. Really, only a few sore muscles and even that isn’t a big deal.”

 

Phil doesn’t respond, simply rakes his eyes over your form, calculating, taking stock. You don’t squirm under his heated gaze.

 

“I wanted to apologize.”

 

You squirm now and cross your arms over your chest. _Defensive_ a voice that sound suspiciously like Taylor’s whispers in your ear. You uncross them.

 

“I’ve been misusing my authority over you and it’s inappropriate and I know it needs to stop so – ”

 

“Misusing your authority? Phil, we’re fucking, you didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to.” You cut off, tone unbelieving. Freakin’ martyr.

 

A cruel smile passes his lips and then he’s straightening up, hands smoothing down his already flawless suit. “I’m going about this wrong. I’d like to ask you out to dinner. A proper one. We can even eat the food this time.” And there go flashes of Phil pushing aside your takeout in favor of giving you a blowjob on his lumpy sofa.

 

Your brain short-circuits at this image, at the memory of his tongue and his taste afterwards and it must take longer for you to come back to yourself then usual because when you do return to the present he’s nodding and leaning away from the counter.

 

“Understood. I’ll see you at medical first thing in the morning tomorrow Barton.”

 

Panic seizes you and you reach forward, grabbing his wrist tightly. He looks unimpressed with your hold so you turn your palm over and clasp hands with his. His fingers are warm in between yours and he squeezes tightly back.

 

“Stay.” _Stay with me, please._

 

He does.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

You find Stark in his labs, running after Dum-E and muttering under his breath as he does so. The lab is in its usual chaotic state and you watch him from the entrance.

 

This is the man that drove your husband so far up the wall he pulled muscles from how annoyed he’d come home. The man that refused to learn his first name, probably didn’t know it until the end. The man who tried to take on a demigod on his own, half drunk on grief over his death.

 

You know you’re doing the right thing but it still makes your throat tighten, the thought of leaving this behind.

 

He hasn’t noticed you yet and you know he won’t for a while so you simply take your ID card and leave it on the table by your left. He’ll find it at some in the week.

 

You look back at him once more before walking away.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The first time you pick up a bow in the range you’re alone and it’s three in the morning and you have been at S.H.I.E.L.D. for all of six months. Said six months have consisted of therapy sessions and basic tactical training and Agent Coulson – not Death, apparently – keeping you on a tight leash.

 

It’s a compound and it can’t have more than a 10 pound draw weight and it feels so _right_ , so good on your fingers you tighten your hold for a second, desperate to soak up the feeling of wholeness. Up to that point S.H.I.E.L.D. has had you on sniper rifles and knives and while that’s all well and good, the compound bow feels like home.

 

You bring up a target, forego an arm guard, carefully set the arrow and pull back. The feel of the nocks by your fingertips is like heaven on your skin and as you release a breath the arrow goes flying.

 

The sound of it hitting the target is almost heavenly and you’re loading the next arrow before you even know it.

 

The time flies by carelessly and when you realize you’ve gone through your entire quiver all the targets for your lane are in shreds and it’s close to four.

 

You’re tired and aching and want to sleep desperately but you still don’t jump when Agent Coulson slips out of the shadows. That seems to be his thing and you’ve gotten used to it by now.

 

“Impressive.”

 

You don’t sneer, only nod and go to collect your wayward arrows. “Thanks.”

 

“Weapon of choice?”

 

Another nod and then he’s moving closer, invading your space and reaching for the bow. You let go so you can avoid touching his skin, nothing good will come of that. He runs his fingers over it, softly and carefully and dear god you are _so_ freakin’ screwed.

 

“Show me again.”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Nat and Taylor meet against your better judgments. You’re half sure Phil planned it.

 

It’s during one of the few times S.H.I.E.L.D. allows you to walk the Russian around, introducing her to the layout and floors outside of her B and C block rooms.

 

Taylor ambushes the both of you in the cafeteria, throwing herself down across from both of you.

 

You blink at her slowly and kick at her feet. She scowls and kicks back.

 

“You must be Natalia Romanova.” She doesn’t offer her hand, smart, or smile, also smart.

 

The redhead eyes her slowly before focusing on the tray of mush before her.

 

You offer Taylor a shrug because that could have gone a whole lot worse.

 

(By the end of lunch they’re chatting quietly, ignoring you and you’re cursing Phil’s name. Now you’ll never be able to get away with anything).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Your new place is neither in D.C., New York or Connecticut. Instead it’s Parker, Pennsylvania and both Natasha and Darcy complain on the way down there.

 

The apartment is smaller than your first one, five times smaller than the one at the tower but the second She-Phil jumps off of your shoulder and runs into the kitchen you know it’ll eventually become home.

 

“I hope you’re aware that this will in no way prevent me from bothering you at all hours of the day. If anything, this will just give me reason to get out of the lab and let Jane and Thor have some alone time.” Her eyebrow waggles are still as awful as they were two years ago and you throw a pillow in her face, reminding her to finish unpacking the DVDs she’d put herself in charge off.

 

Natasha makes a noise of agreement from the kitchen. “We should have made the boys come do this. I have better things to do than arrange your pots and pans Barton.”

 

“I don’t have any pots and pans Romanoff, jokes on you.” You shoot back, trying to find a way to take your sheets out and not alert She-Phil of their presence. “And no you don’t.”

 

The apartment gets half way done before they call it quits, demanding you feed them for their labors. You steal Darcy’s wallet and use her cash to pay for the pizza.

 

She shoves your head to the floor and steals your S.H.I.E.L.D. issued credit card. You snort and let her have it; you never use it anyways.

 

“I like this place. I’m probably going to take possession of the guest room, just a warning.”

 

You frown and kick at Darcy’s feet, stealing the last slice away from Nat’s sneaky fingers. “Yeah okay sure.”

 

Nat grabs it back, making a rude face at you and you throw the box at her head. She ducks and it smacks the wall instead.

 

“Psychos.” Darcy mumbles, running back into the kitchen.

 

Your chest warms at the sight, at the sound of her moving crap around like it’s her own, at the sight of Tasha trying and failing to keep the cheese from sliding onto the floor.

 

This place will do just fine.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

“My brother Barney, I have no idea if he’s dead or not.” The words slip out easily enough, roll off of your tongue with grace almost and you hate yourself for that.

 

Taylor doesn’t seem to mind, simply nods and caps her pen. You love the fuck out of this woman. “You lost contact?”

 

A bitter smile crosses your lips and you squeeze down tighter on the stress ball. “Well the last time I saw him he’d left me for dead in an alleyway after running off with my former asshole of a mentor.”

 

Two blinks. “Must have been hard on you that.”

 

You don’t fight the laugh that rips itself from your throat and you rub your neck roughly, desperate to relieve the pressure there. “Yeah, you could say that.”

 

“Well have you tried to contact him since, reach out?”

 

“Nah, last I heard he got busted somewhere down in Virginia.”

 

She hums under her breath for a while at this before reaching for the two glasses on the coffee table. You smile at the fact that she no longer tries to swipe your feet off of said table. “Come on, drink time.”

 

“Ah doc, you know I’m a sober man.” Remember her words of _my dad was an alcoholic, it’s why I spent most of college with a pumped stomach_ and your reciprocation of _my dad was an alcoholic, it’s why I’ve never known what the bottom of a bottle looks like._

 

Taylor holds up the bottle of grape juice with a twisted little smirk and you accept the glass greedily in exchange for the stress ball.

 

“You really want to talk about this sober?” She asks, sipping away at her drink.

 

“You know me, I’m always willing.” You watch the ice swirl around.

 

She laughs lightly at this and you marvel at the sound, it’s been a while since you’ve made anyone laugh like that. “Okay then, tell me about Agent Morse. I’ve heard through the grapevine that you two have been seen together a lot recently.”

 

The change in conversation is swift and this woman is something like magic, you’re sure of it. “Bobbi? Nothing to tell really. She’s hot, funny, we talk when we’re on missions together and find an empty table in the cafeteria.” The air around you has gotten thick all of a sudden and you try to ignore it.

 

“Not your type?” Her smile is loose and mischievous and you can tell she’s slipping out of her role as your therapist and into her position as your friend.

 

You don’t have to ask what she means so you shake your head. “Nah, it’s not that. I’m bisexual, it’s just…I’ve got my eye on someone else. Have for a while now.”

 

Her legs come up to her waist and she leans back into her seat. “Anyone I know? We talk about them in here yet?”

 

You set down your glass and shrug a bit and try not to think about last week and Phil’s office and how warm his hands had been under your skin and how hot his breath had been and how afterwards he wouldn’t look at you and you’d rushed out of the room sick to your stomach.

 

“Yeah, a few times.”

 

“Can I get a name?”

 

You shoot her a pained look and reach for your glass again, not wanting to stain the wood.

 

“Superior then. Okay, well how long has this angst been going on?”

 

“…Two and a half, closer to three years now.”

 

She looks very unimpressed with you. “So from the minute you got here is what you mean?”

 

You can only shrug in response. “Let’s get back to Barney why don’t we, he’s a felon now doing big time.”

 

She allows you to transition away with a smirk and a fond look.

 

Yeah, you definitely love this woman.

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Kate Bishop is a complete and total accident. And you’re blaming She-Phil the Cat. And Alice.

 

Somehow, the thought that entered your brain that She-Phil is going to be lonely at the new apartment, what with you off saving the word and whatnot.

 

And what a better companion for your frisky feline friend, than a _dog_?

 

You’re browsing the animal shelter with She-Phil the Cat perched on your shoulder, claws digging in as she helps you inspect the potentials. So far she has rejected five dogs and one very sad looking rabbit, all the while nibbling on your jacket.

 

You’re just about ready to call it quits and take her back home when she meows really loudly, retracts her claws and jumps to the ground, making her way over to the last cage in the row. You follow after her and sigh once you see who she’s stopped in front of.

 

“You sure there She-Phil?”

 

She meows and nudges your foot before turning to the sleeping one-eyed dog, paw trying its best to get into the cage. You scoop her back up and head to the front desk.

 

There waiting for you is a kid no older than twenty, popping bubblegum and reading an NFAA magazine. She’s barely looked at you for a minute before she’s shooting up, gum falling right out of her mouth. “Holy shit you’re Hawkeye.”

 

You frown and place She-Phil down. “No I’m not.”

 

She frowns back, squints her dark eyes at you and, “Yes you are I have your poster.”

 

You give her one very unimpressed look and nod over to the back room you just came out of. “The one in the last cage, one-eyed lab. I’ll take him.”

 

She hands over a clipboard weighted down by forms slowly, eyes tracking you. And that’s how you notice the callouses on her fingers.

 

“You shoot?” You ask and you regret it the minute it comes out of your mouth. No Barton. _No._ Goddamn it –

 

“Yeah what’s it to you?” She crosses her arms now and oh my god the pure snark in her voice is enough for you to choke on air. _Damn it._

 

“How good are you?”

 

(And that’s how you come out of the shelter with not only a new dog but also apparently an apprentice).

 

\--

\--

\--

 

The morning after the wedding (not the first one or third one but the second one) you wake up, turn over to your right and face your husband.

 

Husband. You roll the word around on your tongue, test the weight of it. It feels light against your teeth, small, not enough to incorporate all that the man besides you means.

 

You reach forward slowly and brush hair out of his eyes. The only chance you get to do that is when he’s unconscious, otherwise he flinches away. There will always be triggers for him, this one being the biggest. He can’t stand hands near his eyes, his forehead. His mouth, chin and cheeks? Sure, whatever. Never above his nose though.

 

You trace your finger down said nose now, carefully, slowly. The skin is soft under your touch and you marvel at the fact that you get to do this now, for the rest of your life. You get to touch him and hold him and _keep_ him.

 

He wakes when you move on from his face to his arms, carefully tracing his veins.

 

“Hey you.” He whispers, voice rough and dry and oh god you are the luckiest man alive.

 

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and lean closer, desperate for more. “Hey yourself.”

 

Phil’s answering grin is wide and you want to kiss the happiness on his face. Want to kiss every inch of him, hold him against you and never let him go. You settle for taking his hand in yours and resting your head against his shoulders. “How does being married feel?”

 

“Honestly?” He wraps his arms around your shoulders, brings you in tighter and it’s a little uncomfortable but you don’t fight the hold. “It feels amazing.”

 

You grin into his skin and close your eyes against the feeling of warmth crawling through you. “This means I get to keep you right?”

 

A soft laugh escapes him and you can feel him slipping away, back into sleep. “Yes Barton, you can keep me.”

 

You squeeze him once. “Good.”

 

\--

\--

\--

 

Marcus calls you into his office a week after you move out of the tower. You know it was Marcus that called you in and not Fury because he doesn’t glare at you on your way in.

 

Instead he watches you with slow eyes, mouth firm and hands to his side. That’s all you need to know as you take a seat.

 

“Marcus.”

 

He takes his seat across from you at your greeting, nodding in response. “Clint, glad I could get you to come in.”

 

So much sass in such a short sentence. “Last I checked you’re still my boss.”

 

“Oh really, I wasn’t aware considering you moved out of the tower.” He’s doing that one eyebrow thing, mimicking Taylor perfectly. For the first time in months this thought doesn’t make you ache.

 

“I left the tower not the team.”

 

He’s not very impressed by this and at this point Fury would be demanding an answer out of you. Marcus waits.

 

“I needed to be there, at first. It helped a lot actually living with them. But I’m better now, I can handle the distance. Besides my apartment’s closer to HQ.”

 

Marcus sighs at this and you thank the heavens that he’s deciding to be your friend right now. “I’m going to assume this means you’ll have more time to yourself now?”

 

A slow smile finds it’s way onto your lips and you shake your head. “I’ve actually decided to take on an apprentice.”

 

Marcus snorts, expression disbelieving. “If anyone else said that to me I’d laugh them out of here. You training up the next Hawkeye?”

 

You pause and… maybe. You’re sure there will come a time when it’ll be too much for you, when you won’t have it in you anymore, when Phil and Taylor’s ghosts will finally catch up to you and you’ll need Chicago air to fill your lungs.

 

“Possibly. Kid’s good, great even. Not up to where I was at her age but she’ll get there.”

 

He nods at this, obviously pleased and yeah, _no._ S.H.I.E.L.D. is getting nowhere near Kate.

 

“So what I’m getting from all of this is that you’re good? Not going to have to loan out Alice anymore?”

 

You swallow and although it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t exactly feel good. At least you got a dog out of the whole deal. You tell him as much. “I’ve got a dog now, I’m doing pretty good.”

 

Marcus’ gaze is amused at best at this news but he seems happy for you either way, expression soft. And it’s with this expression in place that he finally leans forward in his seat, interlocks his fingers and asks: “Well then tell me Clint, do you believe in miracles?”

 

“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”

\- E.A. Bucchianeri,  _Brushstrokes of a Gadfly_

 

**Author's Note:**

> and yes, that is a reference to cap 2.
> 
> (originally this was supposed to be a bit longer; with the whole steve and clint thing more in depth. and i was going to work in nat and fury's relationship from cap 2; that was the point of clint telling nat it wasn't true when she told him he's everything to her. but then i remembered that the damn thing had to end at some point. so yeah).
> 
> if any part of this was confusing, or the timeline was just let me know. i sketched out a timeline for this story early on that should help if some scenes seem random or don't make sense.


End file.
